The Mouth

So what about that fanged facial pit,
Our own multi-tasking mother of spit?
Strangers see freely our tongues and our gums,
Taste buds swell open, writhe against plums
Tormented by teeth, by linked enzyme chains,
Crushed juices confess to tender membranes,
With everything else we push in this hole.
Lips wriggle and flex as moistened sounds roll,
Forging connections to brain and to heart
As words find instructions to turn into art.
The soul clambers up its precarious rungs
Cut from the clouds released from our lungs,
Sheds throbbing heat from the skull’s dying star,
Kisses and weapons from life’s abattoir.

Elizabeth Hurst

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Elizabeth Hurst  would like to hear them