After Last Night’s Misspeaking

Splay me out in retrospect. Here in the open jaw is the wild tongue that seems to move in accordance to tides. Here, the eyes that soon might look their last. Your thoughts are hidden behind another long-distance call and a wall of “I don’t know.” It was I who placed the pins, who drew your hand along the dotted lines—and how do I look now, with all my inner pretties turned over and exposed under your lamplight? Does the formaldehyde sting your nostrils, too?