mouth in the yard

at first i would feed it hair.
a strand or two tied in a bow.
i didn't tell anyone. 
i discovered long ago that it is best to 
dismantle yourself alone. put on
the cantaloupe face & say, "nothing
is eating me alive." the mouth 
has followed me all my life.
it used to be just the size
of a tiny ant hill. i mistook it for
the home of some kind of small creature.
brought it sunflower seeds just like
i used to feed the mice who came
to my bedroom at night. 
then it grinned at me. my hunger
became its hunger. pressing bottle caps
into the soil. i hate to smile
with my teeth showing. they've
always been crooked. in yearbook pictures
i would color my mouth in with sharpie.
just a gaping hole. the hole becoming
my entire head. it got bigger. asked for
fruit. an apple. a peach. i made it promise
not to scream. i was so scared
of hearing whatever noise it might devise.
it listened or at least so i thought.
the hole is never really part of you.
it is just a hallway through which
you try to be real. the mouth. the door.
the chimney. in biology class i sat 
in rows & learned about the bodies
of sponges. one long passageway
through which priests walk dangling
their little incense cauldrons. laying 
with a lover he once asked,
"what is something you've never
told anyone?" i thought about 
telling him the truth. about showing him
the mouth that follows me.
we lived in the city so the mouth dwelled
at the corner of the nearest parking lot.
instead, i made up a story about
craving the moon. he asked,
"like an astronaut?" i said, at least somehow 
honestly, "no, like a great big gumball.
something to chew to death on."
today i bring the mouth rotten bananas.
they're slimy & sick. the mouth
accepts everything, but especially
the dead & decaying. the mouth has
never spoken but i think if it did 
it would say, "please keep me" as if i have
a choice. as if its hunger is not my own.