Eye Sinkhole Tabitha III
MOUTH MEDITATIONS
He tells me to bite down.
I say, I can’t.
What do you mean you can’t?
I can only bite up. I can’t lower my upper jaw.
Don’t they teach you that in dental school?
He asks if I grind my teeth in my sleep.
I ask how I’m supposed to know what I do in my sleep.
If someone sleeps next to you, they’d hear it and you’d know.
So I invite him to sleep next to me.
How many mouths can I create for myself?
How many mouths are too many?
Consider: laughter.
Consider a street named
for the opposite of what you’ve always been.
Consider whether you’re predisposed to join a cult,
the predisposition of a Botoxed lip.
I’m watching a comedy special.
I’m twisting my tongue.
I’m searching for an aphorism
for the taste of my own buds.
Sometimes my jaw gets stuck.
As a child my legs locked
when I folded them into a W
and my whole body went mute.
And here I am brushing too aggressively again.
Here I am receding.
We’re in your kitchen
doing a blindfolded taste test
of all the foods you hate.
You chew your cheek and count
one. two. three.
before you ask me something big.
I’m singing on a tiny stage
and at least three people hush their dates
to say, hey, listen to this one.