Well, okay, it’s a wisdom tooth. And the crater
of its disappearance, Dr. Wachtel’s grammar,
a few phrases left in a cave, a squirt of sea-
water, something I’m trying to hear, something drear
as TV news, the part of me that knows a stone
can float under the right conditions. This bloody
socket, this embarrassed vacancy, this don’t-you
dare-put-your-tongue-in-it fear of biting hard the
truth. Which is what? You can’t ask that. It’s not covered
by the policy. Your SS # lost. Gone,
the vapor of a waterfall that once shimmered
rainbow. Tonight’s night longer than it used to be.
A distal pain. Bruise of a dropped weight. Not enough
to cry out enough. Nothing to bloody a grin.
John Allman | Post Card
Contents | Mudlark No. 48 (2012)