The Mouth

Jennifer Lynn Krohn

Under my bed lives                          a mouth.

Just a mouth. Nothing else.
                 No eyes.
                                  No ears.
No lips.
               No arms.
                              No stomach.

It swallows Micro Machines, Legos, socks
loose change, used staples, and hairpins.

          They don’t disappear.

A mouth by itself          isn’t very threatening.
What accompanies the mouth—

                              the tongue,

               the teeth,
the throat,
and the gastro-
intestinal tract—is.

A mouth             by itself
          is fine.
               A hula-hoop.
               A door.

I sleep while the mouth swallows
               my shoe
          and swallows it again.
It may even swallow me,
          I’d never know.


Jennifer Lynn Krohn was born and raised in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where she currently lives with her husband. She earned her MFA from the University of New Mexico, and she currently teaches English at Central New Mexico Community College. She has published work in Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Necessary Fiction, Storm Cellar, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, and Gingerbread House Literary Magazine, among others.