the garden

It’s daylight when my vision blurs around the edges
And I’m left with a haze of snowy residue, a glaze/luster of ice

My mind is blank and hollow; wiped of any memories
Like dust blown off a timeworn book

And my teeth are already starting to
fall as promised, but I’m curious as to what would happen if
I could swallow
The same way I swallow the blood rushing out of the vacant gaps
The same way I swallow down my words

With the dewy morning light shining down, the familiar
figure beyond the twisted
trees proves to be a white stag. It nearly glows, translucent in the uncharted woods.
When it disappears into the groves, I get the inexplicable urge to follow after it

But I want it to be over; I want the cycle to stop
So I don’t follow it
I don’t listen to my impulses I drown out my instincts and my feet remain planted to the ground
I put my hands over my mouth and ignore the way blood dribbles between the crevices of my fingers

Ivory enamel prods its way out of my gums and the string attaching my last
teeth to my gingiva snaps.
With all the gleaming teeth in my palms, I tread through the vines and shrubbery and make my way into the forest
Fingernails tarnished with dirt,
I plant the molars into the soil

The stag approaches me, sniffing at the white fangs with a similar white muzzle
Trying to nip at them
Trying to take one in its mouth
I push its snout away and cover the teeth with mud

Almost immediately, the animal leaps over shrubbery and bounds into the forest,
And I sit there watching the pile 

It’s not too long before the molar sprouts out of the ground; maybe a
few minutes
Maybe a few decades

I know I’m supposed to ignore the growth;
Dig underneath and pull the
roots out of the wet soil. Shove the gleaming ivories back in my mouth,

For the sprout is a mere sign that the teeth are awaiting

But I’m hungry
I’m starving
My hands are numb from the cold and my lips are a frostbitten
blue and I’m hungry

 

Would it hurt to reach for the sprout instead?
Feel the white-green/celery green against
my tongue? Indulge in nature’s nourishment?

It’s definitely worth seeing the garden again
As long as my stomach stops
eating itself, and as long as my throat stops feeling like sandpaper each time I swallow.

 

Tonight, I’ll feast
And I’ll break the cycle tomorrow
Tomorrow 

The garden is not too bad
To dream of

After all