i went down to the quarry 
where biplanes go to die
to look for stone. my mouth
was a new wound. echoed like
lake water. refused to grow teeth.
every night i would 
press my thumb to the roof
of my mouth in the hopes
of inspiring migrations.
i have tried many materials:
wooden & fur & graphite.
taking my tool-set to carve 
each obelisk. when i was a child
we played ghost in the graveyard 
in our father's mouth.
he risened blue & spat us all
into the sink. i left a glove
stuck between two of his teeth.
when i make my own
i always think of him, carrying 
buckets of coal into a fire.
how his teeth were sometimes,
on the right night, just blue flames.
tongue scorched from repetition.
i choose grey stones. fill my pockets.
theft is almost always neccesary
for building. these rocks 
are not mine just as 
they are not the quarry's 
just as they are barely even
belonging to the earth. we were all
a product of one great pressure
be it gravity or gender 
or chewing. i want to eat 
like the gods do: fed by
a gentle follower's hands. 
instead i squat, pigeon-like 
amoung the rubble looking 
for potential teeth. set them
in my mouth one by one. 
ask a passing snake 
what he thinks as i grin--
my smile a half-finished puzzle.
he is too polite to comment.
what you should know though
is there was no original teeth.
i have to make them
just like my father does 
from pencils & broken glass
& plundered cuff links.
open wide to a passing flock above.
airplanes headed to their burials.
they spell "not yet"
in the wonder-blue sky. 

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