several tongues

i couldn't help myself but
lick each knives instead of 
washing them off in the sink,
a tongue split in two,
one escaped on the tile floor.
i should be more careful
but i'm old now.
the sink full of submarines
& the garbage disposal a 
handful of teeth. this happens
all the time, i lose them
& live curious about
their possible return. 
the vermin they are. 
i know their feet & their
white bellies, the soil
on their skin. when no 
one is watching that's when 
hunger takes over-- when 
the plate congregates with 
chicken bones & all 
the old tongues quiver,
contemplate returning home.
i know they want to.
how many times has my mouth 
made divisions?
the collision of language-taste,
the word "calliope" always leaves
everything tasting like 
cantaloupe. i feel each & every tongue,
so many under the top soil.
other ones hide in potted
plants & under pillows with
all the baby teeth that
have yet to be collected.
i've become accustomed to 
the aluminum taste of blood,
to dabbing my mouth with
a wad of toilet paper. 
they always leave no matter
what i feed them. i open
the fridge to take out 
slices of un-orange cheese.
i eat an orange & lick 
the juice off my forearm 
& the counter, take a 
Clorox wipe & press it to 
my face. i will clean (punish)
the tongue if it insists
on escape. the serrated knives,
drawing my pink skin across.
a loaf of bread. slice &
slice & slice. aluminum 
foil, wrapped up. these
are leftovers. the swimming
in roots. they won't
be coming back, i know this
at least.