Muscle

The soup was a mistake.

Steam rose in a single, thick column

and I went in anyway,

shoving the plastic spoon

against the roof of my mouth.

Now the center of my tongue

is a patch of dead leather.

I rub it against the back of my teeth

and feel the sandpaper grit

of buds that gave up the ghost.

The coffee is just hot water now.

Everything I touch with my mouth

is muffled, wrapped in a thin,

invisible bandage

that I can’t peel away.