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Teeth

Emily Rose Larsen

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You rose-up in quick pink
across from the cemetery on Peterson
in a public bathroom stall.
Pocked a gasp I silenced with a flush
as children began banging on the air-dryers
toilet-wind roaring

You rose-up rosacea and cross-eyed, a cleft to stuffed away
I remember the smell of sterile and the immediate gnaw

And the Roseland Cemetery watching
my elevator descent towards the Target parking lot

All of the costumed gravestones
became your jagged little smile
particles scattered in snowed-over dirt
gum and glycerin
chomping
through gate and bar