Mastication

I shouldn’t have ordered the baguette.

The crust is a shard, or a serrated edge,

and I’ve been working that same ridge of meat

since Tuesday—no, Sunday. It’s a ridge now,

a topographical mess inside my own mouth.

I’m going into this room to talk about money

with a little flap of wet, white skin

tethered to my jaw. It won't let go.

I can’t stop tonguing it, making it raw,

until it’s the only thing I know about myself.

People will see my jaw moving

and think I’m thinking, but I’m just

trying to swallow the evidence of my own hunger.