“The mouth does not hunger, but it keeps swallowing” by Ashley Wang

Image by kjpargeter on Freepik

I was washing the dishes, the window

open in front of me. There always seems to be a window

somewhere, & there always overflows

the basin of soaped water, lemon fresh & frothing,

& then, the night air, like the unbaptized

hand of a baby, leashed

onto my flesh. My unhappiness followed

along, & it spoke to me. It told me to gnash,

& so I gnashed, I gnashed

& I boiled, & I ruptured. Ceramic

slipped out of my hands & returned to earth, the stained

linoleum of my kitchen. Shards,

like the jut of teeth erupting. My teeth,

jammed together like an animal’s bared. In front

of me, the window, the dark, the opening. When I climbed

up, it was with the floor snapping at my heels.

& when I crawled out, it was through the foamed

brush of my sink. & when I emerged again,

it was as the damp mutt newly born, swaddled in the dim

of the gaping sky. I gnashed in its great

mouth. I showed my teeth, I cried out—

& then, the dark grew

tired of my struggle. It did not wish to hold itself

open for much longer. & when it gulped down,

I followed like a straight shot fired. & then,

I looked for a window. & then, I could not find any.

Ashley Wang is a first-year LSA student from Ellicott City, Maryland. They have been writing from a young age, but began specifically focusing on poetry in high school.