Gums
About wisdom teeth. About never having children.
The mouth can easily be a womb:
it is a soft, warm entry into my body
and past those gates lies creation,
or maybe destruction, definitely
hunger, however.
Like ovulation, speaking words is my creation,
when I talk about you, the saliva covers my lips like lubrication,
the tongue curls into shapes to form syllables,
seduction as my communication.
Nourishment cannot distinguish between hunger and lust,
and even if you tore me open, pelvis to neck,
would you be able to see if the waves of satisfaction
came from my mouth or from my womb?
Sexual gratification is exsanguination,
biting my tongue feels like menstruation
and I’m no stranger to blood between my legs.
There is tenderness in this comparison.
In the sense that my pulled teeth,
which are asleep, covered in warm cotton
and caressed and cleaned like dirty toddlers,
are the closest I’ll come to children of my own.
They are birthed from the same portal of flesh,
made from my blood and bone:
Ossification violently torn out before liberation.
Here’s my apology,
children of bone,
I will not forget you
from the ache in my moan,
and the holes of your absence.
I will honor you,
and your starvation,
when I sink my teeth,
into the willing flesh of another creation.
Sincerely,
your mother and your damnation.
