The Mouth the Altar Forgot

Not a portrait.
Weather held under glass.

The room nails light
to a face
and calls the nail
a halo.

Blue crosses the brow
like a vein
ordered not to open.

Fruit hoards itself
inside the peel.
Flowers open
to the last white millimetre,
hiding the brown hinge.

So the eyes close.

Not sleep:
a lock
with lashes.

At the threshold,
rain takes off nothing.
Mud darkens the mat.
The door drinks
along its grain.

Inside, rot is folded
into linen.
Hunger wets one corner
from below.

On the altar,
polished fruit shines itself
away from the hand.
Petals lean closer.
Water sets one clear tooth
to the gloss.

By dusk, gold leaf
blackens
under the tongue.

A damp seam
enters the blue.
One petal gives up
its white.
In the glass dish, the orange
loosens by pith,
by the small white ropes
that held it whole.

The hand lifts it.
The peel breaks.
Segments slide free—
bright chambers,
thin walls torn.

The hand presses one
to the forgotten mouth.

Juice crosses the lip.
Weather enters.