That it is almost prehensile, a pink muscle manipulating morsels of fruit, of slander. That you can feel it, right now, tensing in your mouth as it scans the possibilities of tang. That it probes with equal avidity the cavity left where the filling fell out, and the heart of the olivetoying with its little flag of pimiento. That it obsesses over the sharp edge of a chipped tooth or a canker in the cheek. That it is aggressive in the sinuous frenzy of a kiss, and athletic in its efforts to read beyond the lips to nose, to chin, or narrow to a little snake head of pure investigation. Restless, a blind, amphibious animal, ceaselessly testing the limits of its porcelain cage, cunning in shaping breath into word: half-truth or proverb, benediction or blight. As original as Eden. As unmanageable.
Luci Shaw’s most recent collection is Water Lines: New and Selected Poems (Eerdmans).
Copyright 2005 by the author or Christianity Today/Books & Culture magazine. Click here for reprint information on Books & Culture.
