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| Slack Jaw Symphony |  | |  | |
by S.D. Parsons | |
This narrow, wheat stalk pleasure
resonant with wet, terpenic ghosts.
This silent space
like single, pure notes
of wrung indulgence.
This impoverished conductor,
his cello orchestra
tuned each at half-key intervals
in slack-jaw symphony,
Where, pinned with taxidermist proof
against tenantless wall,
where remnant shadows
substitute for lovers —
This glass jar of dried flowers,
crushed petals brackish, black,
curled like swirling strata
of fossilized bones;
These layers of love
you sift through expertly,
where even the whiplash comedy
of your tongue can not dissipate
frail moments we turn
facing, hiding behind
smiles of yesterday.
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