by J. Neil C. Garcia
The poem’s a tooth
Rather, its ingrown grain.
Whichever it is that gets
To be the pulp-and-enamel
Shoot, and blooms.
For the tooth, like the poem,
Involutes and implodes:
Tickled to a pink by age,
Its mother is the gum
That slaves. Pierced by her children,
She outlives them in the end.
Shrunk to a bone and purple with grieving,
Only then is one truly wise:
We shed away what we cannot carry.
The process of growth turns turns in
Upon itself, finally, like life.
The baby grows
On its mother’s tit, and teethes.
W drink our mother in
Through the eyes.
But tit and teeth do give out both.
What lives after poetry of death –
The gap-toothed child?