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    Lines Written on the Back of a Tooth

     

    by Jennifer Moore

     

     

    Look, here. Wisdom is wanting. On a clear day,

    anchor the mirror, then anchor two. Don’t chew.

     

    With a tongue, probe the groove. Nudge the bud

    ’til it throbs, then drag yourself to the waiting room.

     

    In order to excise the molar gone wrong,

    the expert will put you under. Not quite the sting

     

    of the acacia ant; nobody’s fired a staple

    through your cheek. No one’s dropped a red coal

     

    on your tongue, then forced the jaw shut.

    On the contrary: all at sea, the thing you’ll feel

     

    feels like nothing at all. Wait while he grabs

    the neck of the tooth, drills the maple

     

    and drains the sap. After the pluck,

    you’re barely able to part pith from flesh.

     

    A fog will befuddle your moves.

    Draw carefully from the scoop of a spoon;

     

    be sure not to suck. When the reasoning brain

    returns, you’ll come back, too,

     

    but I’m the bit you’ll be missing.

    Slipped between pillowcase and pillow,

     

    I’ll be carried away by the fairies—

    a yellow clench under a cushion,

     

    with one wish: Little prison, little mouth, 

    let me find a way to enclose you.

     

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