my mother is lavender wrists

and a pressed suit. she says swearing

tarnishes a woman’s image, renders her unbeautiful.

remember that women must seal red inside themselves

like an envelope; only children show their tongues in public.

this makes my mouth a clasp, the type that opens from the inside-

a knot not yet undone, warm and wet. i think of my body, wavering

between brinks of polish and rawness, as the

container of an infinity. should it spill,

my mouth shall become a maw, gaping

and unbidden, something to turn

away from.

in government class, my

teacher explains the notion

of hyperpolarization- two opposites derailing away

from one another, each nailed to a platform

of gridlock by the same inability

to understand. hyperpolarized

words ricochet off intolerant vessels,

unfurl into tendrils, turn time and

space into conduits; they are

channeled through the

voice, the mouth, the lips.

come morning, my mother

undoes a coat of red gloss

upon her skin, and

disguises all

traces of her

infinity.