M.C. Bolster

My rogue tooth falls out of place every three days. Like clockwork.

Tricky to salvage as it drops, a giant pebble mixing with bits of oatmeal swirling in cold Corona slipping out with no warning as I listen to Adele’s swoon— endless love in the arms of a chiseled cowboy. My rogue tooth is fake— a thousand-dollar fake, clone of a tooth, a stand-in for missing molars lost to age and Hershey bars. Jarred loose from my jaw just as the world shut down.