Wisdom Teeth (that Which G-D Means Me To Bury)

by Faye Chevalier

[i]
inimitable callow-ses 
and matchless eyes,

would you 
take time,
and paint my fingernails 
a watercolor-olive-
green with dead grass? and i’ll fill my shallow nooks with weathered soil.
and i’ll build a slight-sense of slighter-still stricture.
and i’ll scour the rough edges, rid myself of friction. 
[ii]
i’ll inscribe my spoken name 
in curative, indiscretion-al lettering,
ribbon-ing across the nape of my neck.

and i’ll wring these upper-baritones, 
and their occasional high e’s,
until they 
in-vert—

finding themselves wholly wreathed in 
near-orderly 
nigh-plastic,

with a finality sounding something like 
what Connecticut should’ve sounded like.

and i’ll seal stacks of these 
over-ink-ed sheets, 
so
Hayek 
would be 
displeased.

and dislodge my bodily scars 
to their rightful spaces—

your right, down an inch or so, 
your left, up nine, 
your right, up four.

[iii]
see, Noreen needled a snowflake 
into my reeling expose-ed skin,

and now i can finally remind myself of impermanence.

[iv]
and i can only assume it makes some kind of difference.

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