My mouth has no idea we’re in a pandemic.
My mouth cannot stop dreaming about sex.
My mouth’s fatal flaw is hunger. My mouth
is the maple limb that storm-splintered
into the backyard overnight, wrecking nothing.
It is a sidewalk splattered with wet forsythia petals,
sticky & fading. It is the lightning,
the thunder, the drench. My mouth is not the same age
as the rest of my body. The rest of my body
is a paper sack of bleached flour —
it cannot be refolded neatly, cannot stop spilling.
My mouth is a map of all my desire, is the red circle
around the towns I have lived in,
is beauty mark & mole, bite & scar
& bitter grudge. It remembers everything.
My mouth is a country that cannot stop
hurting its citizens. My mouth is ghost,
monster, dinosaur. The rest of my body
curls into quarantine but my mouth is outside
looking for someone to kiss. My mouth
will promise anything you ask,
go anywhere you want it to. My mouth
is responsible for every lie I’ve ever told,
my mouth wants to confess & be forgiven
as if that is love: tonguing language
into the world in hopes it comes back changed.