Mouth + 1/2/24

On the points of your teeth, words wait to drip onto your tongue. Conversation dances around the sharp edges, dodging the words that would light fires. Conversation sprinting along rows of molars looking for phrases that sing songs. The mouth waits to gnash while your voice laughs. All the words of the world fill your cheeks, pushed up into the corner of your gums is the right phrase to say in this situation. The skill is in the tongue to find those words, hug past those blood hungry teeth and in the soft dark protective pink and discover the words you actually need.

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How gray you seem for something new
a second day in muted pause
morning in a suspended state
even the wind is absent
if I stepped off the porch
would I fly into this world waiting
the air is as if someone has slapped a face
everything pauses and
the color drains from the scene
stuck in the borders of a comic panel
our advantage is only in having to understand
what is directly in front of us
last year swung a fist very hard
color coming in the bruises we carry
purpled and magenta, sickly green skin
into spring
winter carrying over feels unfair
ending a year only to be bridged
with a season built for reflection
Now we wait in gray for weeks
months with the only relief being
white blankets that may never even arrive