What your mouth does when you're thinking:
pulls in at the corner, like it's hiding a mint.
What your mouth does when you lie to the waiter
about liking the gumbo: nothing. It's a good liar, your mouth.
I'm going to remember that.
What your mouth does on the third bourbon,
on my balcony, with the trumpet two streets over
playing something slow enough to lean on:
it softens, it forgets itself,
it gets a little open at the middle like a door in August
left that way on purpose for the air.
What your mouth does when I say your name
in the voice I don't use at work:
it stops. That's all. It just stops,
and waits, and I can see the pulse in your throat
take the long way round.
What your mouth does against my neck,
just under the ear, where the perfume is,
where I put the perfume on purpose
because I knew where your mouth would go —
I'm not going to write that down.
A woman is allowed one secret
from her own poem.
What your mouth does in the morning:
complains about the light,
says _five more minutes_ into my shoulder,
tastes like last night and bad coffee,
and I swear to God, Delphine,
I tell myself — I swear —
I could get used to being this happy.
