FIRES AND FLOODS |
How many times I’ve wondered whether the mouth is a cave, a place to find refuge from the rain, the way I’ve always searched for safety in someone else’s body, finding warmth in hands that make my body ignite. And I like this kind of burn— the feel of your mouth, your bird-like fingers, never stilling, perching on the branch of my shoulder, knotting in the nest of my hair. I remember the first time your hand snaked into my pants. My body became a lit match. My eyes fell shut like a window in heavy winds, mouth opening into a silent scream, which is to say the mouth is more than a tongue and teeth. It’s the low whimper falling from a throat. But such a sound fades fast. And if the mouth is a way in to the body, then it’s a cave, and what is a cave but an incoming crisis? We’ve all heard the stories: the monster waiting within, or the collapse—people stranded inside. And, yes, I’ve confused the sound of the ocean with the song of someone’s breath. I know that neither force is safe, that there’s such a thing as drowning in someone’s scent, getting locked within the cave of their mouth, too far gone to escape without leaving a piece of yourself behind. |