Faith Paulsen

As if to yawn, as if in wonder,
as if to pop your ears, as if
to sing,
you stretch your lips.
Air and air pressure
rush into your throat, inundate
your sinuses like rain.
The whirring brush flashes and cleanses,
tasting of wintergreen and cloves,
stirs the surface of your skin into froth,
fills your lungs. You unfold.
The tongue forgets it was ever bitten.
Unspoken words forget you denied them.
The sentence, your own, declares itself.
Verbs and pronouns preen,
the warm light shines
on the tender gums
the secret places
between your teeth.
Your senses blush rosy, clear,
articulate.