Say excavation, exoneration.
My mother’s mouth, washed out
with soap. In that cool cocoon
a salmon caught in stones.
Bird flapping in a trap. Cheek
swab, sea snail. Show me
how a smile hides argument
behind its teeth. Ask her,
what words made your
crimes? She ate wood,
sampled leather. Grazed
the back yard of her alphabets.
Grass cats lumbered the clods
of her thoughts. We tumbled
through her silent gardens
filled them with noise.
To untether the tongue,
say frenulum. Say frenzy.
A simple snip and a drop
of blood. Let her taste
peaches, warm June. I imagine
my mother is more than apology,
flag planted in her throat
unfurled past mumble and scorn.
Poplar at dawn, she is lingual.
Tina Carlson is a Santa Fe poet. Her most recent book, We Are Meant to Carry Water (3: A Taos Press), is a book of poetic epistles written in collaboration with poets Katherine DiBella Seluja and Stella Reed, in response to the 2016 US presidential election. Her first poetry book, Ground, Wind, This Body (UNM, 2017), explores the impact of war on a family when the veteran does not receive adequate help for their trauma.