"Apparatus," by Mark DeCarteret

[mosca]

Apparatus
by Mark DeCarteret

God knows when I open
my mouth it ain't pretty,
twisted cage I've cranked
up from the depths,
my speech lined with brine-
a sad wreck of talk
you can only be sorry for,
conjure chalk-squeak or sputter.
Pay no mind to this silver-
we'll always be indebted to dust
and the fine grind of words.
Though the tongue remains new born,
pinkest splash of immortality
always flaunting its flesh
there are those like the grasses
that conspire against us,
who quietly cheer when we wheeze
and round the vowels of oblivion,
who would cut us by halves
with fingers raised in peace.

Another moon settles on the sill
to see about restarting my heart.
Lord, it could crown me with light
still these lungs would not last.
And who knows where this air's been.
I hear screams from what's left,
organ music navigating my grid.
A creak now accompanies most tasks.
Oh please, what can anyone say?
You can only glide beads
in my absence, manipulate
time with my countenance.
Soon I'll be nothing but narrative-
dragged out like a centerpiece, ageless,
just more of those teeth you
always see drowning in a glass.

From The Del Sol Review