Eventually

She clipped the x-ray to the light box.

Pointed at a molar—

white and dense, looked solid to me.

She said eventually. Not now. Not more

urgent than that. Just: eventually

you'll want a crown on that.

I drove home with the windows down.

Kept running my tongue past

the tooth—felt fine, felt mine,

the way a thing feels fine

until someone shows you the picture

and draws a line.

They were all lit up on that film.

My teeth, but strange—

like artifacts from a dig site,

labeled, arranged.

I kept touching it with my tongue

the whole drive back.

It didn't feel like anything.

That's what I can't get past.