Stick bits of plastic in my mouth
to rip between the edges of my teeth
and shred my sensitive-ish gums
to validate your bloody marketing
and wholesale purchase of dentist gowns.
Shame the memory of my head-hunting ancestors
who grew bitter herbs in the wild-wild hills
to boil them with fermented lard
and came from a cave and left across a lake
and have kept me here to pretend
at being them.
And when these teeth rot and die
and these powerful gums are a distant memory
I will get dentures.
For she loves me without my floss,
and swears she will love me
without my teeth.