Open

Monday, the cleaning. Nothing wrong.

She said open and I was already—

mouth wide, the word still coming along

when my jaw had moved. Steady

in the chair. The paper bib.

The overhead light. My hands flat

on the armrests. Some crib

of obedience. Just like that:

the word arrived and I'd already gone.

I drove home fine. But I keep

turning it over—the one-

way current of it. The deep

reflex. The word arriving late.

My mouth already open.