like angler fish teeth. Drip in the sun. Hold tight in the frigid dark. Opened my own mouth and tried to get in the habit of flossing. Fishing ice from between my teeth. I have my own snow storms now that it‘s almost spring. Little cold parties where I tuck my heart in a mitten. I should have kept better track of the icicles diminishing— instead, one day I looked up and the rooves were clean but slick from fresh melting. Opened my mouth to find all my teeth still there. On my best days I am much less dangerous than an icicle. No one at all has died. It is March.
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