WEBVTT

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"My Mother's Teeth."

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So my mother had dentures.

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And I tell the
story all the time

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because I think
it's interesting.

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I don't know, maybe
I'm the only one

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that thinks it's interesting.

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But I, growing up, used
to see little cups,

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glass cups of dentures
floating around in soaking.

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And for my entire
childhood and adulthood,

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I thought there was just
one set of dentures.

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That is not true.

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There are many sets.

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So I found them and I
wrote a poem about them.

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My Mother's Teeth died
twice, once in 1965, all

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pulled out from gum disease.

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Once again on August 3, 2015.

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The fake teeth sit in
a box in the garage.

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When she died, I touched
them, smelled them,

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thought I heard a whimper.

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I shoved the teeth
into my mouth,

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but having two sets of
teeth only made me hungrier.

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When my mother
died, I saw myself

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in the mirror, her words
in a ring around my mouth

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like powder from a donut.

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Her last words were in English.

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She asked for a Sprite.

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I wonder whether her last
thought was in Chinese.

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I wonder what her
last thought was.

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I used to think that a dead
person's words die with them.

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Now I know that they
scatter, looking for meaning

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to attach to, like a scent.

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My mother used to
collect orange blossoms

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in a small shallow bowl.

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I pass the tree each spring.

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I always knew that grief
was something I could smell,

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but I didn't know that it's not
actually a noun, but a verb,

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that it moves.

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