Jessica in Refracted Requiem

Mouths become stiff cones, cavernous tunnels,
the turrets of bodies bent when bad news comes
a knocking, like a stack of knickknacks loosened
from the shimmy of the earthquake, like Thumbelina
balling her eyes out, spittle along the side of her
acorn-bed from her thunderously tiny cries,

like the floor
when it rolled under my palms,

like something different in the air;

and I watched the werewolves wander while
my whispers left imprints of fully formed words
on the collected frost of the windowpanes, and
when I breathe something feels heavier.

Did I tell you about the radio, about the cotton
kindling, about the crumbling of the otherworldly
olive groves in the first hint of spring night-light
seen in centuries?

Mouths become weapons - though I'm
not the first person to bring that to your attention,
resuscitation from the chew and spit of
poetry; those loosely threaded pale sepia
hours of contemplation, discourses for a
discontent distress signal with a damsel
disorder,

like being saved,
when you don't want to be,

like dreaming in refracted
requiem, like seven years
stretching from my teeth, uncooked
meat melting acid in bellies, shirt
buttons unfastened, facades forthwith
fucked-up,

and I said once
that Jessica was an angel,
and I think now
I still believe it,

but how can you be an angel
when I don't believe in god?