The Root of the Soft Tissue

The pizza crust was salt and jagged glass

that left a blooming heat against the floor

of my own mouth. I watch the minutes pass

while peering at the damage in the door

of the medicine cabinet.

I lift the muscle up and see the string,

a pale and taut guitar wire in the light,

anchoring the part of me that tries to sing

behind the teeth, hidden from the sight

of anyone I have to speak to.