A strange woman lies down in my
unmade bed, stretching out her limbs

in the shape of a torn mouth. But my mouth
hangs from her leg, her tendon exposed in a wound

on her shin. Reddened patches rise up on her skin
mouthing numbers that correspond to nothing

except that her body can speak. She means nothing
to me except that she is me, magnified

like a fingernail under a microscope, torn
from its owner in haste.

There are mouths everywhere
in this room: the biggest one is God’s

swallowing bodies whole like so many
lungs are paper, so many hearts, confetti.