Anatomical Mouth

I begin by plagiarizing myself. I am a dummy
sitting on my own lap, repeating: The opposite of anything
is the thing itself. I move my left arm awkwardly 
about my head & point to my mouth. I say: This is 
my mouth. I say: My mouth is very disciplined about memorizing 
the script. (& though my mouth has no means to defend 
itself, it is proud to make good on the task.) I am 
skeptical of any mouth that presumes its own innocence, 
so each night, I give my mouth a bath & brush its teeth. 
I clothe my mouth in a simple orange dress, lay it flat 
for ironing, then hold my mouth accountable. I want 
to tend to my mouth ad infinitum but on stage, tulips 
start sprouting from my skull. With each act, the audience 
grows more & more impressed, though my brain feels the tug 
of roots escaping their secret lives & I cannot discuss 
the brain if I am to look after my mouth. I cannot
multitask, which is to say I cannot invent new forms 
of punishment. Maybe the mouth should wise up & take out 
the trash, or maybe the mouth should wash its own mouth 
out with soap. Maybe the mouth is out of soap. 
Maybe the mouth is out of money & in need of a new roof. 
There is a dramatic difference between what I am looking
for & what is presented to me. Today is the mouth’s 
birthday. Today, the mouth pledges allegiance & tomorrow, 
the mouth goes to school. Eventually, the mouth wants 
more from life & asks permission to abandon the limelight. 
She demands her own mouth & at Target, we eye a variety 
of mouths lining the shelves in cereal-like boxes. Shrewd 
Mouth. Authentic Mouth. Optimistic Mouth. But my mouth 
wants a mouth that says, I am happy to be your mouth. 
A mouth that understands the interchangeability of grief 
with grief. The need to place its hand over its chest & feel 
the thump of a self-generating heartbeat. A mouth that says, 
I know more than what you ask me to do.