ALAINA PEPIN

I BEND MY MOUTH ON TRUTH

In December I set my kitchen table on fire
and buff my skin with ash and chips of paint
that were left behind. I lick pickle juice

from a blue willow plate and crack the china
in half. Maybe if I bathe my palms in salt
and aloe and blood, the stink of sulfur

and Castrol will lose its bite. I’m tired
of apologies, the way my mouth bends
to form the words. Once, in a coffee

shop across from a bar, an old man
told me the key to a happy life is to
live well, to pay taxes, to not be afraid

to tell a lie here and there. But I wonder
what would happen if I told the truth,
if I stopped chewing back the way

my heart blooms on my tongue like
carnations, full and red and open.
I don’t remember when I first understood

how Saint Peter felt, when it became so
easy to deceive. I think when the sirens
come, I’ll show the cops my sooty palms.