by Aaron Griffin
I need to shut me up, need to pull the mandible
from its muscle and cease my mumbles.
I put my foot in my mouth
and stomp while I hold me by the teeth. Jaw
unhinges. cheeks rip down the middle,
tearing the tendons that mold me.
I kiss what’s left of my lips, and make this mouth
beautiful. Replace the umms with mums and daisies.
I make my mouth a vase:
fill it with flowers, stuff stems
of orchids and poppies
down my gapping throat.
To make room I pull out my teeth and tongue,
rip my Adam’s apple from my throat, and plant
seeds in my stomach and lungs.
They drink from the bile, flourish
and flower with tendrils
that grow through my veins,
Roots plant deep in my intestines. Sprouts
blossom from my eyes and nose;
a bouquet to honor the death of noise.
I’ll become a garden of roses and I’ll build
a bench on my forehead so passersby
can sit, and enjoy the silence.