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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.    

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   Contributor’s notes

   I Didn’t Tell You I Wanted to Feel Your Chin at the Nape of My Neck
   I’ll Make Dinner Tonight

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