by Liz Kicak
Dream Theory: Losing Teeth
I
I spit teeth into my hands, until my hands overflow.
I spit teeth into my hands like apple seeds.
Apples so filled with seeds my hands overflow
So I stuff teeth in my pockets until my pockets overflow.
I stuff teeth in my pockets like pearls dropped from a strand.
Like pearls dropped from a strand, I stuff teeth in my pockets
But my pockets overflow because I have a mouth like a crocodile.
I have a mouth like a crocodile—deadly. Row on row of teeth.
Endless and deadly. I have a mouth like a crocodile.
II
You say I worry too much about everything. You say
my teeth are pretty and my mouth is fine. Stop worrying
you say. My teeth and mouth are fine and pretty.
III
An apple ripens until the weight of its juice pulls it off the stem.
This is what it feels like:
Every night, a mouth full of ripe apples.
IV
We leave the hospital after finally letting my Papa die.
We let him die and gather in the kitchen to discuss lunch
and how to keep breathing. We discuss
How to keep breathing because my Grams’ lungs refuse
to fill in the hours since he died, and she searches her purse
for an inhaler but finds his teeth. She finds his teeth
Lays them on the table like a centerpiece
or the start of an altar. Did the hospital send his teeth
in the box with his glasses and wedding ring?
Were his teeth in a box or did she pry his mouth open
with her own shaking hands to harvest them? Her hands
shake but are strong—strong enough to harvest her husband’s teeth.
The downright insanity of it all: he’s dead and his teeth,
his teeth are on the kitchen table where we will soon have lunch.
We’re still breathing and eating—the insanity of it.
V
I am tired of your teeth dreams, you say. There are no such things
as omens, you say. I stare into your open mouth while you sleep
looking for any signs of ripening. Any signs of any signs of ripening.
I worry you are not the altar-building kind. Worry you do not love me
enough to pry open my fine, dead mouth and string a rosary
of my pretty teeth you harvested with your own shaking hands.
Do you love me enough to pry open my dead mouth and take my teeth?
Pulling and pulling until your hands and pockets overflow because
I have a mouth like a crocodile with enough teeth to build an altar.
Poet Liz Kicak (she/her) lives and works in Tampa, Florida. Her poetry has appeared in Orion, The Tulane Review, Black Lawrence Press and other publications. Her first full-length collection, “Reliquaries” will be released in 2025.
Artist Ann Hoagland’s (she/her) background has been “a little bit Country, a little bit Rock ‘N Roll.” Having grown up in Kentucky, that sparked her affinity for nature. Thereafter a career in the travel industry brought her to New York City. She has since turned to a more relaxed life in South Florida. With such abundant tropical foliage and wonderful vistas, she looks for the effects of dappled light or scenes displaying a certain sense of resilience and positivity. You can find more of her work on her website: http://annhoaglandphotography.com/.
Gulf Stream Magazine 