Poem: Sweet Tooth
Jun. 25th, 2012 07:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alee_grrlThis poem was spurred into being yesterday evening when I got home from dinner. My water had gone out (again, and is now fixed, again, hopefully will stay that way), so I went into the village for dinner at the local tavern. I've been eating there pretty regularly since I started Lyme treatment and most of them are used to my meat and veggie only orders. My waitress wasn't one I'd had that often (though she was very sweet and as attentive as she could be considering they were slammed and only had one server working). She kindly asked if I wanted desert (which is her job after all), and I said "No thank, I'm not allowed sweets." Her response was "well at least it will save your teeth." I made the non-committal, "yeah, I suppose" sort of nod and headed home. This then insisted on being written. It came out much longer than I expected. Not entirely sure if I like it or not, it's a bit more poetry slam style than I tend to write (or at least feels that way to me). Constructive criticism is welcome.
Sweet Tooth
"At least it will save your teeth,"
a response to my prohibition of sweets.
Don't snort. Smile. Nod. She doesn't know
my teeth were doomed long ago.
I am my father's daughter after all,
and he lost his teeth at eighteen--weak enamel.
"You lost the genetic crapshoot,"
the dentist's explanation.
For me: too small a mouth for so many teeth.
Baby teeth fit my child sized mouth,
but my mouth didn't grow proportionally--
my big girl teeth came in crooked and misplaced.
She must have braces they said! I was afraid to smile
with a mouth full of too big, crooked teeth.
So braces I got at fourteen,
after they'd pulled four teeth.
Had to make room, they said.
two years of tighten here and tighten there, and don't eat
those sticky, sweet things.
Brush carefully, but not too hard (wouldn't want to pop off the brads).
I wasn't careful enough (impossible to be careful enough).
Eleven cavities when my teeth were freed from the wires and brads.
They weren't the first I'd had, but never before so many at once.
More and more they came, as my enamel faded
so much that you could almost see through the bottoms
of my top front teeth. Soon came root canals
that never seemed to take, the pain came back
again and again. Those nerves refused to die.
The horrible, awful taste of infection, the radiating pain
At sixteen I begged, pleaded to have them pulled.
Dad had his dentures at eighteen and he did alright
(well with eating at least), I could adapt just as well.
"You want to keep your own teeth," my mother vowed.
I didn't. I hated the constant pain, the constant infections,
the horrible dentists who didn't listen
who never used the right amount of novacaine; that bit off
scream was just me vying for attention (yes actually, it was-
attention to the detail that I was in pain).
But I didn't hold the purse strings, and was a minor yet.
So I abided my ticking time bomb of a mouth.
Ten more years of infection, broken teeth (crumbled into pieces
on contact with soft white bread, or half melted chocolate), fillings
falling out, replaced carefully in the mirror til I could get to the dentist.
Abscess upon abscess and crowns and root canals and at least one
"please pull this tooth I can't afford to have it crowned and
the exposed nerve is killing me." Dental PTSD added onto
the other layers of PTSD from my life. Terrified of dentists,
of my teeth, but wanting something more.
Finally, an offer of salvation. My dad's mom, and my dad,
who'd finally gotten on his feet, who'd finally grown up,
offered to help me get them fixed for good.
Finally the pleas of my sixteen year old self were granted.
The nurse was a bitch who wanted to know
"how long you been on meth?"
I blinked. Me, a kid who didn't even like to cross against the light,
a kid who hated drug use and drinking, a meth head?
The dentist asked why I looked so appalled and shocked
(he didn't hear her comment), and shook his head
"I can tell you're not a meth head, kid. You just lost the genetic crapshoot."
Genetically weak enamel.
By this point infection had spread to my whole mouth.
"You were going to loose your teeth, no matter how hard you tried not to."
A sentiment my mother had been told so long ago, but refused to hear.
I heard it loud and clear (and damn near wanted to kiss the man).
Finally someone who heard what I had been saying for so long.
And so at twenty-five I said farewell to my doomed teeth.
and hello to a lovely set of ceramic ones.
Hello again to foods that were not liquid or soft,
to temps other than luke-warm. Hello, crunchy
goodness--apples and carrots and celery, oh my.
Sure, I've had to say goodbye again to a few of those loves,
as I roust the Lyme and Yeast invaders from my body.
My sweet tooth days are over for now,
but even if they had ended twenty years earlier
my teeth were doomed already.
But not one day have I regretted it.
My ceramic smile is bright, my bite much stronger.
I can eat things I gave up hope of ever eating again.
It's not perfect, but it's a close as I can get in this life.
And that's the sweetest thing there is.
Sweet Tooth
"At least it will save your teeth,"
a response to my prohibition of sweets.
Don't snort. Smile. Nod. She doesn't know
my teeth were doomed long ago.
I am my father's daughter after all,
and he lost his teeth at eighteen--weak enamel.
"You lost the genetic crapshoot,"
the dentist's explanation.
For me: too small a mouth for so many teeth.
Baby teeth fit my child sized mouth,
but my mouth didn't grow proportionally--
my big girl teeth came in crooked and misplaced.
She must have braces they said! I was afraid to smile
with a mouth full of too big, crooked teeth.
So braces I got at fourteen,
after they'd pulled four teeth.
Had to make room, they said.
two years of tighten here and tighten there, and don't eat
those sticky, sweet things.
Brush carefully, but not too hard (wouldn't want to pop off the brads).
I wasn't careful enough (impossible to be careful enough).
Eleven cavities when my teeth were freed from the wires and brads.
They weren't the first I'd had, but never before so many at once.
More and more they came, as my enamel faded
so much that you could almost see through the bottoms
of my top front teeth. Soon came root canals
that never seemed to take, the pain came back
again and again. Those nerves refused to die.
The horrible, awful taste of infection, the radiating pain
At sixteen I begged, pleaded to have them pulled.
Dad had his dentures at eighteen and he did alright
(well with eating at least), I could adapt just as well.
"You want to keep your own teeth," my mother vowed.
I didn't. I hated the constant pain, the constant infections,
the horrible dentists who didn't listen
who never used the right amount of novacaine; that bit off
scream was just me vying for attention (yes actually, it was-
attention to the detail that I was in pain).
But I didn't hold the purse strings, and was a minor yet.
So I abided my ticking time bomb of a mouth.
Ten more years of infection, broken teeth (crumbled into pieces
on contact with soft white bread, or half melted chocolate), fillings
falling out, replaced carefully in the mirror til I could get to the dentist.
Abscess upon abscess and crowns and root canals and at least one
"please pull this tooth I can't afford to have it crowned and
the exposed nerve is killing me." Dental PTSD added onto
the other layers of PTSD from my life. Terrified of dentists,
of my teeth, but wanting something more.
Finally, an offer of salvation. My dad's mom, and my dad,
who'd finally gotten on his feet, who'd finally grown up,
offered to help me get them fixed for good.
Finally the pleas of my sixteen year old self were granted.
The nurse was a bitch who wanted to know
"how long you been on meth?"
I blinked. Me, a kid who didn't even like to cross against the light,
a kid who hated drug use and drinking, a meth head?
The dentist asked why I looked so appalled and shocked
(he didn't hear her comment), and shook his head
"I can tell you're not a meth head, kid. You just lost the genetic crapshoot."
Genetically weak enamel.
By this point infection had spread to my whole mouth.
"You were going to loose your teeth, no matter how hard you tried not to."
A sentiment my mother had been told so long ago, but refused to hear.
I heard it loud and clear (and damn near wanted to kiss the man).
Finally someone who heard what I had been saying for so long.
And so at twenty-five I said farewell to my doomed teeth.
and hello to a lovely set of ceramic ones.
Hello again to foods that were not liquid or soft,
to temps other than luke-warm. Hello, crunchy
goodness--apples and carrots and celery, oh my.
Sure, I've had to say goodbye again to a few of those loves,
as I roust the Lyme and Yeast invaders from my body.
My sweet tooth days are over for now,
but even if they had ended twenty years earlier
my teeth were doomed already.
But not one day have I regretted it.
My ceramic smile is bright, my bite much stronger.
I can eat things I gave up hope of ever eating again.
It's not perfect, but it's a close as I can get in this life.
And that's the sweetest thing there is.
