Toothy Poetry

my tongue is a record player

covered in sandpaper, rubbing raw

over a mysterious hole in the wall –

can loss of tooth be prepared for?

what of two teeth, four

a swift horse jab to the jaw

and no more little white warriors

entrenched, as it were,

in their little red coats

stamping at whatever ventures close –

am I an adult?

will these, too, regrow no more?

small alpine huts, tiny white-capped

men clapping heels and heads

with seismic groans – how

will you endure, so few in number?

canine mutts with little pallid tufts
and sanguine bottoms, the sled
you drag behind grows heavier
by the mile, as you carry phantoms
through heavy snows,
how can one forget what one tows
tied tight behind, black hole memories,
the tongue scratches, leaving tracks behind


(http://benjaminwblog.com/2014/05/toothy-poetry/ ‎)