That soft spot between chin and throat--what all it invites--a kiss, a knife, a knot.

A throbbing more seductive than the heart's, a pulse just palpable enough to insinuate life, this delicate cushion around taste and voice. Only barbarians would aim for anything lower, or even higher. My taste knows no other perfection on the body so ready to receive what I have to give. This gift of death that I unknowingly carried around for so long, has finally found its receptacle.

Friar Luis coughs uncontrollably at the end of his sermon. Someone offers him water. Still his Adam's Apple darts nervously. It can sniff my thoughts.