Originally exhibited at the Orange County Center for Contemporary Art

Teeth

Prose Poetry

I’ve dreamt of my teeth falling out as early as I could say my own name. Scattering like coins on a sidewalk. Chin painted red. No one ever helps.

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Maybe, this is the body’s way of remembering itself. The toothless infants we used to be. A time where we didn’t carry danger in our mouths.

And if this were true, then I wouldn’t be so different from my body. Returning to a past over and over again. Hardly recognizing the present because the present often feels modest — the way that home won’t feel like home until you miss it for the very first time.

Originally written on January 21, 2020.