EVENING WILL COME: A MONTHLY JOURNAL OF POETICS (ISSUE 7: July 2011)

Christine Hume
Hum                              (page 5)

Hum

Isn’t it always true that some parts of us stay behind? Then, everyone gathered around me in the orthodontist’s office. My mouth was open wide, no sound escaped. We were looking at an X-ray. The doctor discovered that my jaw had kept growing long after the rest of me stopped, jutting out he said, “unlike a human jaw.” He carefully avoided the word “Neanderthal,” but my jaw flexed, determined aggression and appetite radiating.

“     “     “     “     “

“     “     “     red  “

“     “     “     “     “     “     red  “     “

“     “     “     “     red  “     “     “     red

red  red  “     “     “     red  “     “     “

“     “     red  “     “     red  “     red  “

red  ”     ”     ”     ”     red  ”     ”     ”

”     red  ”     ”     ”     ”     ”     ”     ”

”     ”     ”     red  ”     ”     ”     ”     ”

”     ”     ”     ”     ”     ”  red     ”     ”

red  ”     ”     ”     ”     ”     ”     ”     ”

red  ”     ”     ”     ”     red  ”     ”     ”

red  ”     ”     red  ”     ”     ”     ”     ”

”     ”     ”     red  ”     ”     ”     red  ”

”     ”     ”     ”     ”     ”     ”     red  ”

”     ”     ”     ”     ”

red  ”     ”     ”     ”

”     ”     ”     ”     ”

”     ”     ”     ”     ” 4

Not speaking, but spitting in the red river of voice. I spit it out, I reiterate what I leave behind. The jaw dreams of singing along, when I gag on my own mouth filling with sound. The pulse in my throat chokes me. Open my trap: no words for what my mouth knows.



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