Lisa Ciccarello

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.