Joel Chace
from Mouth
Drifting up a stairwell, mouth:
both its eyes, two ears, one hand, one
leg, with foot.
                              Today it wishes
to say numbers, so it does,
thusly:  numbers.   Just the way it might
say lilacs, or way.
   ф
They ask mouth how it was born.
Again, it says.  “All right, how
were you born?”  Again.
                                             “What
do you mean?”
                              Once more.
   ф
“Why, mouth, your eyes, ears,
appendages?”  Head, face,
arm, hip need them no longer.
Now they are of
me:
          whereof I
speak; whatof I speak.
   ф
Mouth is tired of answering.
This happens since mouth was really
born to interrogate.
                                           Drifting,
again, in a stairwell, mouth
observes, on a landing, two
lovers pressed against a railing.
What [are they]? What [do they do]? What
[physical space do they
inhabit], [and] where?
                                           All other,
unimportant questions
remain unasked.
   ф
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from Mouth
Drifting up a stairwell, mouth:
both its eyes, two ears, one hand, one
leg, with foot.
                              Today it wishes
to say numbers, so it does,
thusly:  numbers.   Just the way it might
say lilacs, or way.
   ф
They ask mouth how it was born.
Again, it says.  “All right, how
were you born?”  Again.
                                             “What
do you mean?”
                              Once more.
   ф
“Why, mouth, your eyes, ears,
appendages?”  Head, face,
arm, hip need them no longer.
Now they are of
me:
          whereof I
speak; whatof I speak.
   ф
Mouth is tired of answering.
This happens since mouth was really
born to interrogate.
                                           Drifting,
again, in a stairwell, mouth
observes, on a landing, two
lovers pressed against a railing.
What [are they]? What [do they do]? What
[physical space do they
inhabit], [and] where?
                                           All other,
unimportant questions
remain unasked.
   ф
Over the metaphor “their love is a cataract,” mouth meets someone who says, “Those words are comparable.” Mouth’s two eyes blink. Blink. Blink. To what? The person sketches, quickly, two hearts, equals sign, waterfall. Blink. Blink. Where?    ф Against its better instincts, mouth agrees to play golf. All goes badly. What with mouth’s one hand, one foot, the ball ends up everywhere. Mouth enjoys most shouting Fore! out over the course, though sometimes it’s For! and sometimes it’s Four! Mouth pauses at this oddity: I can say, “There are three [ ‘s] in my language,” but hand can never write that. Mouth continues to play.    ф Occasionally mouth wants nostrils, but knows it can’t have everything: no chiming of resources. Eyes, ears, hand, leg — enough. Though one day hand picks up paper money from the pavement. Mouth studies it closely, then wonders, If I had another hand, could one give the other this money? Mouth drops the bill, moves on.    ф Mouth takes a proprietary interest in these words: “But I do anymore.” Leg twists around: no good. Whoever spoke is gone. Mouth even falls. But laughs. Its gift has already arrived, through the air. Aye due…Butt-eye dew…Any more. More for mouth’s collection. Yet another mess. But fine.    ф “Think fast!” This mouth never does. Thus, the hurled rock takes out an eye. Mind sends pain along. Hand tries to touch the gone orbital. So. But gone is gone. Now, then, this loss is a part of me. Don’t weep, one eye. Just, more clearly, see.    ф Hard it is for hand to shuffle, deal, hold, and sort. Single eye must squint to see. Mouth, though, enjoys the game, for awhile, and especially likes numbers, both red and black. Those are all the cards mouth receives. 3. Red. What do they mean? Nine? Black? “You lose. Pay up.” But I have nothing. “Then I will take that ear.” And it is gone. Mind suspects a bad pattern.    ф Mouth’s impoverished lease on life: eye, ear, hand, leg now just on all one side. Dizzy-listing. Mouth finds it can no longer drift, yet, still wishing to rise, searches for leaned already ladders. Rung. Rung. Rung. Poor hand, leg — nearly done for. Heaved, finally, to the roof, mouth sees — no going back: down, impossibly harder. Leg kicks ladder away.    ф On the cathedral roof, mouth takes stock. Clouds: gold; blood-orange. The bells trembled by this steady wind. Below, rough fabric of the city. In that corner, black column of smoke rises. Heightens. Enlarges. Approaches. Eye twitches. Mouth wants the ladder back.
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