Sunday, March 13, 2022

From the Pocket of His Lip by Airea D. Matthews

From the Pocket of His Lip

Smoke rose under my father’s tongue. There, a strange man with
   an oboe sat on the ridge of his tooth, playing wide vibratos
   through nimbusfog. I asked why he was there, too.
Fine tuning the orchestra of lies.
        I nodded. They play beautifully, don’t they?
Especially in your key. Hum for me.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.