by A.M. Brant

Getting her tooth removed. A molar sitting and rotting
in the back of her mouth for years. For years. She was
in pain, allowing it to continue. Why? Punishing herself,
unable to let go of it. Unable to afford it. To take the time
off. To recover. Who will drive her home? What about the pain
meds, slow slug down the back of her throat. Dry. Dry. Why do we
hold on to things that hurt us? Let the thorn grow through. Trauma
tooth. Years of ache. Pain radiates. Pain burns. Pain tremors. Pain stabs.
Pins and needles. And needles in a stack. Her tooth in a pile of teeth.
Counted out. Adult teeth. Child teeth. Tiny teeth. Fragments of teeth
eroded to gumline. Pink tissue. She fears more rotting. Heart rot. Center
collapse. She smiles, swollen, saliva leaks out the mouth corner. She is free
of it, lets it sit in front of her on the shiny table, studies it, from a distance,
runs her tongue into the still there grave dug in her own mouth. She searches
for shards. Her taste buds, penny and tender.