Suspension Feeding

When she disappears
into the atmosphere, will you 

remember the shape her mouth was in
when she last said 

your name, when she stepped back
from that kiss? A poet skirts 

in and around surfaces
seeking a place to attach herself to. 

It’s a barnacle
life—she’s always preferred the underside
of piers.


All this talk of the source, the head,
of three ecosystems—not 

to mention bog. I’m here to ask
what about
the middle where we’ll find you 

stirring our liquid footprints
with yours to concoct 

a cocktail to be drunk
by those waiting at the mouth
to be served.

Repainting the Mouth

She is certain her mouth,
painted cerise,
will not wear away
too soon. She may 

become all lips
without limbs, without
a neck, without a torso.
She would still dip 

this color, with certainty,
to her brush. 

Long before
day one
there was
this painted mouth: 

Lipstick in hand,
she drew her mouth
perfectly without looking.
Later, watching herself 

be an artist,
her lips canvas,
she drew a cinnabar moth,
not a kiss.