by Tina Carlson
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.
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