Sore Jaw Song
In a dream where
my teeth fall out one
by one
I see the boy who cannot love me.
He bends
to scoop a handful of them
off the ground.
And as they touch his skin
it’s porcelain, not bone,
I’ve left in my wake.
Did I do that?
He smiles without parting
his lips.
I do the same.
No words,
just whistling
between the ghost white
birch trees.
If I had the construction,
the obstructions it takes
to produce sound
with any sort of
recognizable structure,
I’d say “be careful,
they might break.”
Perfect, pristine
impressions of incisors
in fine china
in the palm of the hand
of the boy who cannot love me.
Does he make
the hardest pieces of me lovely?
Or did I make the world,
make myself,
make my mouth
clean and crimeless
before it touched his hands?
Is that love?
If so,
I have loved him,
tooth and nail.