and I see an icicle shaped like a saber tooth. I remember the sabertooth tiger
is dead but could eat elephants and rhinos and bears. I remember a cat is not a cat
but a lineage. Humans are like that, have lineage. Ancestors. Shrouds we might return to
and respect, if we wanted to, if we remembered. But those shrouds are like this icicle
and the children laughing behind it. Tucked in underneath gravel, held together by cold air.
I am underneath the train pulling into the station. There is a loose muscle in my mouth
I worry I might swallow. I am perpetually straining my jaw, carefully holding my teeth apart.
I wonder if I could grow a pair of canines like the saber tooth, if I could ask that of my mouth.
My mouth has asked so many things of me. A news caster moves his mouth
in the shape of WE ARE ALL DYING but the subtitles read BACK AT 6.
I am reminded that mouth is just one way to wear a body, an empire, a vessel
that won’t fit. Teeth are just one way to wear bone. There is always a new name
for reckoning but reckoning never changes. A tiger is a tiger, whether the shapes of its face
or size of its enemies have changed. An empire is always just an empire whether it holds your face
to the ground or lifts you up to touch the sky. I learned about the sabertooth tiger without an age
but as a child, when I pulled back my lips and pressed my thumbs into my canines until I bled.
My niece and nephew ask me, Is this fun? like Are you listening? I am grateful
for small cacophonies. For the chance of renewal. For new centuries to pass down in blood. T
o hope they might choose better names for empires.