crooked-ing teeth

in my mouth there is a cemetery for beetles.
my teeth wear clogs. my teeth ask
the worst questions like, "why does the sky
taste bitter?" the planet is slowly putting on
a wedding dress. we have lost touch
with ceremony. my teeth sing all night 
& i knock on them saying, "keep it down."
they cannot help it. they are trying to give a warning.
i have watched over the years as they have gotten
more & more crooked. first just a twisted ankle.
now, armless mannequins. it's too late to be pristine.
instead, i smile like a riverbend. the beetles are not dead.

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