Molar

The jaw is a hinge that forgot how to swing.

I’ve been biting down in my sleep for weeks,

grinding the days into a fine, grey powder.

Then the lentils. A bit of unwashed stone.

The sound was a dry branch snapping

inside my head.

Now the tongue won't leave the site alone.

It circles the crater, the sharp shelf

where the smooth part used to be.

It’s a jagged little cliff,

a new geography of the mouth

that tastes like copper and old salt.