Words used to tumble
in my mouth like smooth stones.
Fractured, now I choke
on them, broken teeth,
cutting the soft scars
inside the pink cheeks
so they bleed again.
The dentist says nothing,
but sees better than
the priest the way faith
has fallen out of
my mouth, the way lips
and tongue crave new prayers
made of milk and honey
to cool the throbbing
of this silence, this
hollow that echoed
with voices like organs
and chimes, and tongues like
warriors. Are there words
to stitch up the cuts?
If I hold a pebble
against my gum, will it
put down roots, and bud?
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