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)