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Cut My Teeth This was a dream of mine. Was this a dream of mine. Change one word and the meaning’s gone - is it? It is. This is a dream of yours, you dream it. It is of the bulb, it’s here. Now. Right here, see? Between these lips, thick. That you are dreaming. Teeth clench into and lips, soft, swim around. This, I think, this is how I cut my teeth. Paper thin skins peel off, into me. Mouth, this mouth, like the parchment of onions brown but when crunch ed into the taste is new green shoots. I swallow. It grows now, found finally its home in this stomach. Oh, the warmth, can you imagine? It, this bulb, is enveloped in oiled juices eat at outsides just as I should have chewed up mashed this beginning into something. See, the bulb? It is an idea, this bulb, it is what you are dreaming. Bulging it sprouts new shoots, green, tiny fingers engorging at joints, white, they reach


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etch stroke linings of stomach. They are not soft they poke prod cut through this temporary womb, reach (fingers of any style are made for exploration of the new) I am new, to this thing. New, again. This new thing. This thing, I found it in the dirt. Before it met teeth it knew of mulch and wet leaves. Of worms (pink bodies) and the cool stench of moss. Dripping (and) the touch, only, of a snout digging to nuzzle. Dig up roots and bulbs and such, that of a deer, of Pigs (and such) Fingers went exploring, digging up with grit under nails till they learnt what blood meant. Until. This - you bulb. This what. Could be a tulip, yes, just a beginning. A present to the future spring. I spring you from your onionskin packing, so carefully wrapped and plopped you dirty and whole into this warm wet spring mouth you are dreaming. Clenched (suck) and tastes new green, swallowed whole the idea that prods. I strokes - it is pain incarnate.

A cough and you’ll come. Back. Back a space and cough to regurgitate you, thing, up where you belong. Cough too - these dream eyes (you dream them) they snap open (brown, blue, new green?) from the lull of clench and suck and swallow - these shot with blood. Watering (raining) bulb, your fingers, they s t retch tear (fingers tear, eyes tear, see, one word and The wet is not enough for the hooks. Grip, rip, up you come now. Saliva now brown with much taste. Old clay. You are new now, bulb, born again with my marks in you and my blood, this spit, on you. Ours. This is my dream of the bulb. This idea swallowed whole and regurgitated new. Anew. Sticky is, it dries and (cupped in these brown lined palms sticky yes with effort and sweat, hold) this bulb is new green, these sprouts, to you. For you, it is held out. Peeled of paper, alone, ready to be dropped

in to dirt space two fingers wide too deep to grow. Anew. The tulip, I say, this word dream (this is where I first cut my teeth) and I say, and you smile. The tulip, I smile. For you. For you.

cut my teeth  

poetry / prose.

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