Tiny Fault Line

The hygienist hummed, a low, bored tune,

her mask a white half-moon.

The cold steel pick, a tiny claw,

scraped at the gum, then stopped, I saw

her eyes shift, just a flick.

"A hairline crack," she said,

her voice too bright, too calm,

"On this one here. We'll watch it."

Watch it.

As if a crack would heal itself.

My tongue, a sudden, curious thing,

found the edge, a tiny ridge,

a fault line in the bone.

Another piece of me,

a small slow crumble,

under the pressure of the everyday.

A future ache, already there,

waiting its turn

to split.