But what of a woman
without canines. One who has lost
the muscle of molars. Prisoner to a bite
that only knows: run.
Inside this mouth I was once wolf.
Now only a dress of pink
shriveled gums that whisper:
Excuse me. Not here.
I’m not even here.
The small death of letting
go. And rest is a four letter word
with a shallow grave. Every morning
I’m a shovel of knees, every night
an earthworm of goodbyes.
Lifting from soil.
This is the dirt
of never coming home
I can remember
when the first tooth fell
The first time I monstered
or womaned
and someone was there
to watch.
Maybe I’m whatever evil you want
to name me. Maybe I’m not
the tooth.
But the empty space
I tongue into small coffins
when there is no more
strength
to chew.