I was afraid of opening my mouth.
Now I’ve dug a grave with my teeth
& it’s empty. What can I bury.
Our home. Can I bury our home.
With all its stray, unaccounted for memories.
Its silent doors & barred windows.
The bookshelves that sagged from the weight
of unread grief. The darkness at noon.
No, really. There was darkness conceived
artificially by two opposing regrets
we called parents. I remember it well.
The threatening silence. Coiled. Expectant.
Each footstep, a trespass. The guilt
at being slow & loud & invariably me.
I was afraid of opening my mouth.
I was silent for decades, centuries even.
Look, I’ve long since antagonized my own
tongue. Its glossolalic god has stopped
feeding me vowels. I speak in consonant
grunts. I am consonant with a squawk
& a squeak. I was afraid of opening
my mouth & my dog has shown me how.
Stick your tongue out, she said. Wag it
like a tail. Remember that inner beast
I can smell on you when you sleep.
I was afraid of opening my mouth. Its door
stayed locked. I swallowed the key
as one does on a random Tuesday
& it lighted a path through the labyrinth
of my body. I could clearly see
all the way down to disappointment.
I was afraid of opening my mouth.
I built a wall around it high enough
so no one could find me hiding inside,
plotting how to conquer myself.
Contingency plans, blueprints, offensive
strategies—all relegated to memory.
I never wrote anything down for fear
of being found a traitor. I was afraid
of opening my mouth & others were not.
They opened & closed it at will.
They refused to oil its hinges. My mouth
grew rusty. My mouth grew lonely.
I asked the rain to soak its threshold,
to travel down the gullet into the inner
rooms of the heart. This house
is dirty, I said, it needs a spring cleaning.
I was afraid of opening my mouth.
My teeth had to do what the tongue
couldn’t: keep a record in case someone
forgot me. I was afraid of opening
my mouth & now I’ve broken its hinges.
Whatever flies in or out, I bear no
responsibility. Can it be a charm of
hummingbirds, please. A congregation
of plovers. I was afraid of opening
my mouth & now it is open. I am not
sure how it happened. I was asleep.
My mouth was dreaming open-mouth
dreams that all came true. I had
nothing to do with it just like my fear
had nothing to do with sharks or flying or
the abyss. I was afraid of opening
my mouth. We walked down the street,
my mouth & I, both zipped shut.
We had nowhere to go. So many closed
doors. So many closed mouths.
We walked out of town into a field,
up a hill, into an alpine forest. The trees
stuffed my mouth with needles. They hanged
their impossible scents on my missing
incisor, sharpened what was not
already there. If I cannot make you speak,
mouth, I said, at least I can feed you.
Here is a mountain. Take it all in.
Is what you see a truth or a lie. Agape
at the foot of the mountain, it was
the mouth that fed the eye. I was afraid
of opening my mouth & forgot
my fear behind. Somewhere in the pine
forest or by a glacial lake, fear took
its hands off its eyes & stared in wonder.
Romana Iorga is the author of Temporary Skin (Glass Lyre Press, 2024) and a woman made entirely of air (Dancing Girl Press, 2024). Her poems have appeared in various journals, including New England Review, Lake Effect, The Nation, as well as on her poetry blog at clayandbranches.com.