Like enamelled lotus buds
teeth vacate my gums
and mumble dully on my tongue
until I spit them out:
first only one, a wisdom tooth,
gleams in my palm,
a pale calyx
unstained by tartar;
others follow, bloodless,
painless, yet this dream
is ominous, portending loss.
I quake with trepidation.
It's been a year
since I bore witness
to your final breath.
You were there to watch
me draw my first:
you gave me that.
A blankness has replaced
our Sunday afternoons,
but not effaced
the recollected moments
knitting years
into a safety-net.
The teeth were sound,
so sweetly formed,
only the first was cracked.
Like enamelled lotus buds
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2011
Свидетельство о публикации №111012401948
Свидетельство о публикации №111012401948
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