Sitting upright, slouched, I dream of crumbling teeth
tumbling around in my mouth like precious stones.
My head cocked to one side, spit pooling in the crescent of my mouth,
I gradually lean toward the extent of my neck’s curvature;
a subtle bobbing back from the brink of strain.
Like a damp and dripping cave, the tiny bones in my face
pitch and plunk, a calcite barometer whining in the night.
And as the fever breaks, it runs like a streak across the back of my shoulders;
my tongue instinctually plump, a domestic defense.
The cough drop, an amber specimen dislodged from its tucked position,
falls like a fossil against my dream-brittle teeth, a cacophony like a death rattle;
and in a rush, a water table empties down my throat, dry as a withering grotto.