The dream about teeth
Again. There. A dream, a tantrum marking its territory again last night. Wailing, refusing. A pretty little baby’s face all red and slippery with spit. Hush, little baby. Don’t you cry. How to comfort what you can’t understand? I bent down to offer myself to you, but I became frightened, my teeth shattering into a thousand broken pieces. Images, hopes, identities, emails, pride, friendships, pain, love, grief. I’m busy with this, little baby. Someone help her, please. I’m busy with this, little baby. I touched my chest and felt the heart of mother, but the song wouldn’t come. A thousand broken pieces standing guard at the spot where melodies emerge and baby sniffs the air for mama’s loving breath. If I sing to you, who will save me? Years of doomsday hoarding all the things I thought I was, all the ways I pretend to be, a Good. Beautiful. Honest. Person. Darling down on the floor. Your tears and your cries and your spit and your demanding, I hate to tell you this, but you can’t hold on to things forever. I try to open my silly mouth. I test the moment, testing gravity. Peel my lips apart. Hope falls smug like it was line-leader on the first day of school. Pride dangles like a limp weed. The naivety. That it might survive. Grab it with a thumb and a finger, I put it out of its misery. Love tumbles over a protective lip, and emails swim in saliva waiting for the big rinse. Little girl, pretty little baby, is that a smile? Your nose is a perfect button, did you know? Touch my mouth with your small, sweet hands that smell like honey and dirt. Investigate the crime, the war on self, the barricades and the arsenal. Tiny fingers touch the spot where expectations hung, and it feels like forgiveness so I kiss your fingertip. This, a sweet touch, a kind of grace, soothes me. All you want is a song and I’ll I’ve done is imprison the tune. Let me sing for you. Does this sound Good. Beautiful. Honest.? ‘Mama’s little baby loves shortnin’ shortnin’, Mama’s little baby loves shortnin’ bread.’ The rest of it falls. Teeth, dreams, they’re all the same. And you, Content and Delighted, couldn’t be more in love with a mama who sings to you. I smile at you. I smile at myself. My voice is not so bad, is it? ‘Mama’s little baby loves shortnin’ shortnin’, Mama’s little baby loves shortnin’ bread.’