Fault Lines

In the photo, I’m laughing at a joke

I can’t even remember now, but my mouth

is a canyon of small, uneven gaps.

I look like a fence with a few slats missing.

I run my tongue over the flat, smooth gum

where the molar used to live before the root gave out.

It’s a ghost of a pressure, a hollow space

that feels larger than the tooth ever was.

I try to say 'something' and there it is—

a thin, sharp whistle through the front teeth,

a leak in the plumbing of my own voice

reminding everyone that I am slightly coming apart.