Poet’s Mouth

I roll words in my mouth like 3 marbles chilled in the refrigerator,
trying to find equilibrium:

between my teeth,
under my tongue,
wrapped in cheek.

I do not open my lips until they’ve warmed
and then I loosen my jaw and turn my tongue into a hardwood lane
on which I bowl them down one-by-one.

One pin left.
Turkey.
Strike.

Some marbles stay frozen
and the way their glass feels in my mouth
makes me swallow them
the way a child swallows bubblegum
with too good a flavor to spit out.

I feel them somersault down my throat
and collect like weights at the bottom of my stomach.

Now, I remind myself of the Ty Beanie Babies
I collected in the 90’s.

When I turn in bed, I feel the marbles turn with me.