like curvature of collarbone
like mom's indented thumbnail
like sunken couch cushion,
there is serration here.
there, the ridge
there, the tooth
erupting, pushed, hanging on by gum, 
creaking in the door hinge pull of wet mold
like patellar groove
like fallacious mouth 
like electrical socket.
there is no telling when 
each shape took to itself—
how hard a door must slam to dictate
the way a nail can grow—
but i know there is space there now, slippery, present.
i run my tongue along each slope.
i tell myself there is nothing there now,
so, of course, nothing can ever come again.

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Oh, My Word! is a weekly updated blog featuring fiction, poetry, drama, and essays for the world. #OhMyWordWednesday

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