Only now I wonder if I show my soul
just to feel that I have one,
to feel that it’s there and not lost or
having some how slipped out of me
like a crumpled up love note from my pocket.
I used to dream that all of my teeth were falling out.
I’d feel the first rolling around on my tongue, foreign
and estranged. Like I never knew it to begin with,
now out of place and with nothing to do
but be spit out into a strange hand quizzically.
And one by one they would like stalactites
cascade onto the then writhing
muscle feeling something new,
a fearful tongue,
and I with fearful tongue and speechless,
a mouthful of confusion, I, skipping stones
into the dark pool of my mouth, am lost.
Only now when I wake
do I still bare my teeth.