Each mouth a wound or weapon.
If weapon, then the trigger is tongue
some men dispense for spectacle
for unfair light, teeth a crowding
of poison capsules given to other
and they. If wound, then the pain
is already present: monologues
unspoken then knit into the dark line
between closed lips. A woman laughs
and is arrested, her mouth healing
pink in the reborn gleam of morning,
that pale light given to the eyes of deer.
Like them we toggle between forest
and road, between mother and master.
Each jaw is fighting words, urging
syllables through gaps, beneath silver
fillings and pockets left by wisdom.
Throttling our necks as we open, again,
our throats and allow the lungs to blue
into smooth stones the flood forgives.