I’m creeping toward forty as though toward
a car wreck, with the same morbid intrigue.
To mark the occasion half a stout

half-forgotten molar pops loose as I’m
flossing and drops with a startling plink
into the enameled basin. I take

it up, palming it like a prospector
scrutinizing that first glinting stone.
This to me is a pyrite-style portent.

Molar, from the Latin: millstone. Romans
grinding the nightly flour, a residue
bleaching the air, ghosting their faces.

Now my injured mouth aches as the dentist
hovers, intent to intrude with his grinding
tool, gloved hand quivering over the trigger.

1 Comment

  1. Thank you for sharing this beautiful poem, which takes a cold linguistic look at the outrage of loss and invasive help.

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