The Way That Sand Feels

The Way That Sand Feels

I
The way that sand feels in your teeth
is like finding a raspberry in your Jell-o
a pebble in your pudding
a tumor in your brain.
The way that sunlight feels in the morning
a thousand origami swans
hung delicately swaying to bagpipe hymns
draped through the air like scarves of perfume.

At first loud and beautiful, then gradually smoothing
the rough spots and arranging bouquets of electrical tubing
beeping from a grey monitor suggesting a continuation of life
reproduction of matter, reproduction of days.
The way that sand feels in your mouth
callous against your gums and tongue is like polenta
grinding pumice as its kernels grate your teeth and throat.

The way that sand feels against your tongue
as it probes and finds every grain gently lodged
in the soft places between gums and teeth
is like finding bread crumbs in the butter
or awkward words on your lips
sticking and tripping until at last you’ve
formed a small sticky pearl
redundantly glossed over
shimmer gone, worth practically nothing.

II
The way that grass feels in your mouth
isn’t much of a feeling at all,
more of a pungent memory of childhood,
laughter and frozen peas,
dogs licking melted sugar off your checks and chin
scent of the color green when freshly trimmed
the sting as sharp blades cut your smooth shins
wet emerald that stains the seat of your trousers.

The way that cold feels in your mouth
doesn’t just stay in your mouth.
seeps into the roots of your teeth
deep: they chatter so hard it jars your insides
so your hands and nose and toes
don’t know how to move quickly or feel anything at all
turns your skin blue and freezes over your breath,
confuses your brain until you are exhausted
but still have that cold taste in your mouth
like blood and iron.

The way that home feels in your mouth
is tradition. The taste of warm handmade bread,
scent of laundry detergent and vanilla candles,
bed sheets spiced with cinnamon and lilac,
sight of familiar faces in black and white photographs
hung squarely in frames on walls
falling asleep reading books.
- Sarah Wagstaff