the tongue in your mouth, now, is not the one you started out with

The universe demotes me, 

yet again, to coin-operated laundry, 

and each night, when everyone 

is sleeping, our tongues all migrate 

one mouth to the left. The tongue 

in your mouth, now, is not 

the one you started out with. Your tongue 

is half a world away. None of my dead, either, 

have ever been interested 

in coming back. Plastic cups 

drift into my yard 

from the fraternity house across the street. 

Brothers, I’ve been looking 

for someone to hand my body 

over to, so that the dirt 

will not page through it. Rib bones 

like lines, clouds like accordions, 

and soon enough the rain 

dropping like choir members. 

What can I say? What could be said. The church 

was always so hot. Tongue 

come back, come back 

for a little bit longer. I’ve only got 

the one death to my name, one death 

and I’m not going to ruin it. 

 

[Josh Bell, 'The War Against Birthdays', from Poem-a-Day]

 

listen to it here