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back MEG MCKEON
I Didn’t Tell You I Wanted to Feel Your Chin at the Nape of My Neck
I pickle my tongue
in the conversation
we had about moths.
Watch it toss & flip,
licking at the edge
of the mason jar.
Without the pink
of a mouth, it forms
no words.
It gets out,
spilling wrong sounds.
Plunking on kitchen tiles.
For months,
I find moths,
near lamps,
in the fridge,
& folded under
pillowcases,
they died
in pairs.
I Didn’t Tell You I Wanted to Feel Your Chin at the Nape of My Neck
I’ll Make Dinner Tonight