Tresha Faye Haefner
THE MOUTH
wants to feel it all,
tight between the teeth.
Stiff nipple, hard with milk,
button, bee-hive, tail end of a shawl.
Native only to itself, the mouth becomes
queen of each country, where she plants her teeth
like flags. It fills and still feels empty.
Tears open envelopes, twists
the cherry’s slick stem,
taps its canines against plastic,
paper clips, bone.
Secretive as the black bats of Borneo,
the mouth holds its wounds,
like purple flowers under the jaw,
starts affairs, ends lives,
wears language down
to pure moisture.
An ocean of elements,
each word echoing against
the strawberry sweet
of your lobe. Bite down.
It wants you
to know.