On This Fresh Morning in the Broken World
after Mary Oliver
We share a quiet moment, our lips
bridging the center console, my mouth
forgetting how to receive
your tongue, like I've kissed enough
bathroom sinks to bloodlet
my lips numb. I pay a woman
to rip out my hair at the follicles,
for no one's hands but my own.
My fingers are eyes for the unseen.
I choose pain. I tip her twenty percent
for hurting me extra
good, smoothing me exceptionally
plump and pink. My partner encourages
the dog to choose the plush
Winnifred Sanderson in Petco's
post-Halloween discount bin
just to make me smile.
The dog carries Winnie all the way
to the car like a good boy.
I buckle my seat belt, open my mouth
like a good girl. My tongue remembers
it is a tongue.
I fill the holes chewed
into my cheeks with gold.
