Tourist In My Own Mouth
I’m inside my own mouth, seeing what the dentist sees. I’m awed by the whiteness of my teeth – their lingual surfaces, anyway. I don’t notice the tongue, any more than a carpet under my feet. The teeth are like panels of marble. But they have labels on them, which seem to be just A4 sheets printed out and laminated, as we might stick up temporarily on an office door. Some of them seem to be self-praise for fillings and crowns: “Great Job!” and “Fabulous!” But there is criticism as well: “Lousy cap that she got in Italy in the 1990s.”
From Guest Contributor Cheryl Caesar
Cheryl lived in Paris, Tuscany and Sligo for 25 years; she earned her doctorate in comparative literature at the Sorbonne and taught literature and phonetics. She now teaches writing at Michigan State University. Last year she published over a hundred poems in the U.S., Germany, India, Bangladesh, Yemen and Zimbabwe, and won third prize in the Singapore Poetry Contest for her poem on global warming. Her chapbook Flatman: Poems of Protest in the Trump Era is now available from Amazon and Goodreads.
Please support the site by purchasing one of my books on Amazon. Check out Quitting The Grave, a murder mystery set on the Oregon Trail. Plus, don't forget my other books: They Both Loved Vonnegut, Ahab's Adventures in Wonderland, and Picasso Painted Dinosaurs.