Doom Teeth

She has begun losing her teeth. One by one

they come loose from the gum. Doom sucks their sharp

 

edges, tonguing the hollow underneath. Blood,

from root or cut tongue, tastes like magma, she says.

 

The first tooth she lost I put in my mouth, rolled it

between tongue and palate, still warm from her, to feel

 

what Doom did, the shock of the body’s first undoing,

to practice for the loss of my own aching molars.

 

I cleaned it with water & oil, placed it on the windowsill

to catch daggers of moonlight. She once loved

 

a book about the tooth fairy, generous & clean,

read nightly before counting our teeth. I worried

 

about what would be left to give in exchange

for her tiny pearls, whether she would startle at the slip

 

of my hand beneath her pillow. But Doom is mistrustful,

says she doesn’t want to hand herself over just like that,

 

says don’t you feel the heartbeat in your teeth? She holds loss

to ear, pained to hear nothing. I could tell her not to cry,

 

that it was never alive in that way, the shriveled root

inside not a dried heart. Maybe she won’t be so solemn,

 

laying each on the dull white paint of the windowsill, 

but another cavity buckles my jaw. Let her mourn 


each fallen friend while she awaits the new one’s 

arrival, let her believe that life can be replenished.