Lisa Ciccarello
White-Tail

We parsed the white rows

pristine along the bar—

 

the deer had been tar-dark

& the teeth rasped the bone

 

coming out. Laid out they

were the caps of sea-waves

 

roses foaming on the bush

sparrows trapped in the briar

 

radishes blanched in the steamer

tongue-of-god left to steep:

 

silence in the whole of the mouth

hollow space spelled out

 

—I made one missing, made

a hole in the talk, held it

 

under my tongue & my mouth on you.