I ask the procedure of fixing things:
a receding shore, last summer
with the broken wrists, flat lines,
hiding answers in rolling mouths.
Tonight, my jaw is Novocained and
calcified. There can be no language
without a tongue to form the words,
an ocean to listen. You hold up each minute
as a trophy, imagining geodes dripping
from your fingers, the moon as
a drooping waitress. You would listen
to forget, the days where you release promises
without turning back. In the evenings,
the current rushes over our foam lips,
and we are silenced, bodies fish boned
over the cliff. Our chests shriveled
like the moon. I’m trying to tell you
that it hurts like a dream, but
you are listening for whale song,
bonfire. Tonight, I’m running full speed
into watery depths, brine splayed
over my mouth, waiting still for your eyes to open.
Parisorn Thepmankorn is seventeen years old and attends Morris Hills High School in New Jersey. Her poetry has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and is published or forthcoming in Eunoia Review, Black Heart Magazine, and Phosphene Literary Magazine, among others.