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.