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Blue Marble Review

Literary Journal for Young Writers

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Mouth

By Arah Ko

 

I.

Tonguing suckers

until the end has slickened to a sharp

edge and you have cut your mouth

over and over in search of residual

sweetness. Red dripping chins;

I do not know syrup from

blood.

 

II.

The park is stiff with new

cold. Your mittens hang like ruby rags

from their clasp on your coat.

Eating junk food on the bench, a dying

wasp creeps in your straw, stings

your lips, over and over; you cry

until dad pries the stinger from

your gums.

 

III.

The dental students say

one tooth wants to come out.

You shrug, brave apprehension

crinkling your rosy, round cheeks,

for the first time losing fat. You leave

the office, three milk teeth in a

ziplock bag, gauze cottoning the wound

in your young jaw. Your face is swollen

but you smile at me,

over and over.

 

 

Arah Ko is an English Major in the Chicago area. When not writing, she can be found frequenting open mic nights, explaining her name pronunciation to coffee shop baristas, and contemplating the meaning of life, other than 42.

 

Filed Under: Poetry Tagged With: Winter Poems 2017

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