Lineage
by J. Bailey Hutchinson

“what spills from your lips into your palm / —blood puddled—” Ángel García

I sleep my teeth
out of me—always
in pieces. Shattered
like a booted ice cube.
In these dreams, I am
a little bit convinced
This Is Fine. The second
tooth-losing. Now I will get
my bigger jaw for chewing
my bigger meats, as though
every mouth gets a legacy
of bones. Drinking Sprites
with a newly pregnant friend,
I say: lately I’ve been
extremely aware what
occupies me, but I don’t
actually—actually, I say: the ceiling
fell in at my dad’s house
because too many roof-
rats made a toilet of the attic.
I imagine my mouth
soused with critters.
Jittering whatever truss
seems wanting. I read
dental fixation indicates
a number of things--teeth
falling out means embarrassment
teeth falling out means power-
lessness teeth falling out means
money teeth falling out
means—In my dreams,
I sometimes coax
the pieces. Like glass
from a foot. Eggshard
from omelet. Bramble-
root from soil, if soil
was gums.

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J. Bailey Hutchinson was born in Memphis, Tennessee. A graduate of the University of Arkansas MFA Program, she is the winner of New South's 2018 Poetry Contest, and her work has appeared or is forthcoming in BOAAT, Beloit, Ninth Letter, Muzzle, and more. She is currently Associate Editor for Milkweed Editions. Full publication and contact info is available at www.jbaileyhutchinson.com.