Mouth
it’s my first real party, and i don’t know how to act.
i make a beeline for the wine coolers, chasing that buzz i only get when i’m four drinks in.
we made eye contact immediately.
this will not be the poem where i say i fell in love with his eyes because they were blue and clear and wide, so wide.
this will not be that poem because i did not fall in love with his eyes, as glassy and slow-blinking as they had been.
this is not that poem because i couldn’t keep my eyes off his mouth, no matter how hard i tried.
bitten-red by the insistent razors he seemed to call teeth, i watched his mouth twitch ever so slightly when i asked him what he does.
he told me he helps people, “saves them, really”, and i noticed the licking of his lips before i saw the nervous twitch of his fingers, how they fumbled against his flask.
this mouth, shiny and nearly bloody from the collection of knives inside it, could have pressed me into the wall with dangling hands still laying at their respective sides,
but instead stretches into a grin and says its heading out, the taste of vodka on its tongue and something else, something promising.
“it was a pleasure talking to you” it slurs, slow and stretched out as if to get the point across.
to reiterate: this is not the poem where i fall in love with his eyes.
this is the poem about being willingly held hostage with a drink in my hand and the cheshire cat in front of me, smiling like it’s found a new treat.
this is the poem about the mouth on him complaining about the mouth on me, and silently wishing he’d do something about it.
truthfully, this is the poem that wills it into existence.
Copyright © Michele Sherman | Year Posted 2019
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