The Exposed Bone

I ordered the sourdough to prove a point to the air,

to show the couple at the window I could handle

the friction of a hard crust in a bright room,

but the hinge of my jaw gave up a sharp click,

a sound like a dry twig snapping in a library,

and I had to stop chewing while the butter went cold.

My tongue keeps wandering back to the jagged edge

of the molar, checking the damage like a sore thumb

over a bruise, wondering when the enamel tired

of holding the pressure of every night I spent

grinding my life into dust while I slept.