The Space Between

The corn was salted too hard,

the yellow kernels clicking against my plate.

When I laughed at the neighbor’s joke

the air hit that back-left vacancy,

a cold draft in a room that should be closed.

I felt the grit of a single hull

wedge itself into the pink, quiet gum

where the molar used to do its work.

I didn't finish the ear.

I just kept my lips tight

and watched the charcoal turn to ash.