The Gritting

The sourdough crust was harder than it looked,

a deceptive bit of salt and charred grain.

I heard the crack before I felt the pain,

a jagged secret that my body cooked.

Now I sit in the car while the heater dies,

running my tongue over the composite wall.

It’s too smooth, too perfect, not mine at all,

a porcelain lie beneath my tired eyes.

On the bathroom sink, in a plastic tray,

is a tooth that fell out twenty years ago.

A small, white grain that didn't want to grow,

waiting for a mouth that’s gone away.