Aruni Wijesinghe

Extra Teeth

I find your teeth in the medicine cabinet
when we empty the house for renters.
I unearth a grimace in a plastic dish,
tucked behind empty prescription bottles
and Irish Spring. I’m startled
by the bubblegum pink acrylic palate,
the yellowing pearl of incisors. 

When did a manufactured smile replace
your original one? Did your teeth depart
one by one, like strangers leaving
a party, or en masse, passengers
on the same subway train? 

A childhood of migrant farm work
and poor nutrition finally caught up
with your adult mouth.
I search memory for the day
your words changed, filtered
through a cave paved with new stones.  

That day in the Good Samaritan ICU,
spring blushing outside the windows,
was the last time I saw you.
My final words –
                              see you soon, Pop –

trying to make myself believe
we would talk again.  

I refused to see your body returning to womb,
baby-bird curled in hospital sheets.
I blinded myself to IV lines snaking
the rails of your hospital bed, denied
gastric feeding tubes sprouting
umbilical.  

you, reverting to a form
when teeth, bone or resin,
were unnecessary

Aruni Wijesinghe is a project manager, ESL teacher, occasional sous chef and erstwhile belly dance instructor. A Pushcart Prize-nominated poet, her work has been published in journals and anthologies both nationally and internationally. Her debut poetry collection, 2 Revere Place, is currently available through Moon Tide Press. 

She lives a quiet life in Orange County, California with her husband Jeff and their cats Jack and Josie. You can follow her writing at www.aruniwrites.com and on Instagram @aruniwrites.