An ode to babyteeth, flame o’ mine—
willow kissed and dapper, like luna moths drew closer and I chuckled with you all. Like shedding antlers on eager elk, like bubbles in our throats—languishing. Take a beat and jot it down; it’s pretty, no? Green like cherry stems and gossamer, with mildew patches of Minnesota mornings and permanence, no? I lost all my babyteeth at eleven. Mama kept them with her frilly socks, those portraits of sister one, sister two, gran Viola, and dream 47—all rotten, she said. Rank with nostalgia mites, evanescent time. Bits of wear and tear that dropped dead and free, some (one) day, from cavity coated gums—breathing with— pretty, no? Obsolete like freckled cheeks and roly-polies in Chicago, murdered by my baby hands and— My wisdom teeth missed wisdom altogether. So mama said, you have gingivitis, baby. It wasn’t news and yet, she was crying, no? But it was pretty, it seemed. Like cliffs below sea level; like olivia’s curls and lily’s eyes and sofia’s laugh, my— tenfold new teeth, I think. Mama had mailed them with overnight shipping and the box smelled like lilac perfume—like nicotine and cat piss. I placed them in my mouth and barely noticed the blood. Sick with lack of iron, I presume, and my girls— like bodies of loose chamomile—made me smile, no? So we made pretty things on Wednesdays, and my wisdom teeth withered like corsets—arcane with lack of breath, only ever used in the movies. I have my babyteeth, again. And it’s beautiful, soothed with salt and twice as silly, yes. //ruby mead