She remembers her mouth before it made things,
how she practiced being thirsty
until she could lick her hands like kittens,
spit sideways into drooping jasmine.
This was the day she spoke in diamonds.
The neighbors brought buckets,
kept her talking,
wet jasmine gasped its love for her
in swooning sweetness.

Another time she saved her spit,
refused to sweat, let lovers melt
against her skin like tallow candles.
This was the day she spoke in toads,
the cottage floor a deep green twitching,
little feet stuck in her kitten's grin.
She remembers her mouth before it made things,
a day (she'd never been so thirsty)
when something leaped in her throat
and nothing could break it.