A Poem About Teeth

Today, I am a poet in America, writing about lovers & dead mothers, about corners & the words

swept into them, they read like:

tortured, corruptible coronas

porous, sizable iotas

passed from hand to mouth

& in teeth; in teeth, they rest


Today, I am a poet in Lecanto, writing about car rides to bars, about new friends & the beers

they buy me, it comes down to:

broke, barren pockets

stupid, bad decisions

made from moment to moment

& gritted—yes, in teeth & forgotten


Today, I am a poet in a bedroom, writing about little brush fires, about music balled into fists &

the knuckles brushed against, they sound so:

dissonant—coddled harmonies

bedded to brain pan

nestled from synapse to synapse

& on tongue—against teeth, bitten.


Today, I am a poet in a ribcage, writing about opportunities & failures, about broken ankles &

the lament of hearts overlooked, a moan like:

wind, beating through building

tree, growing through concrete

burrowed from marrow to morning

& stained—yes, on teeth, again, & bleeding.


Today, I was a poet; tomorrow, I might not be.


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