It was kindergarten.

The creepy guy on lunch duty

pulled my teeth out with a wrench.

They fell out in a clump

of enamel and gum.

Still, I felt convinced

they wouldn’t notice.

I lost my teeth again –

the four front ones on top.

They remained in my mouth

with Scotch tape, held down.

My teeth are so loose

they protrude at all angles;

My lips have parted,

forever alone.

It’s weird. In dreams

I’ll be endlessly falling,

my throat slit,

a child’s voice calling,

but I only wake up scared–

delirious and delusional–

when my fangs are not bared

and able to reflect the moon.

*Dreams of lost teeth commonly symbolize feelings of insecurity, loss, or transformation.

I have always been interested in the concept of dream interpretation, yet I am always going

back and forth between believing and not believing the accuracy of a real-life translation.

However, I have been dreaming about losing my teeth for as long as I can remember. Starting

in elementary school and continuing into the present day, I have had the lingering fear that I will

one day soon be without my teeth.

The hard thing about this constant worry is that I am afraid I will never be able to rid my mind of

it. Teeth are so often the focus of my dreams that I spend my waking hours thinking of them too.

Unfortunately, this leads to more of the same dreams. I cannot stop the cycle.

It is for no other reason than my recurring dreams that I wrote this poem. On some level, I think I

expected it to be a form of catharsis. In this aspect, I believe I have failed. I have simply

confirmed how much time I spend thinking about my teeth. I am perpetuating the cycle.

Jordan Eve Morral

(Image is of the author)

We know clouds are water vapor,

but we’re still amazed they float.

We know trees are turned to paper,

but how, we’ll never know.

So many little things,

make so little sense.

But since they are ordinary,

questions make us sound dense.

We may be too easily transfixed–

insane and dull and dumb–

but we see the world with wonder,

seeking all of its wisdom.

We are wise fools.

The “wise fool”:

An oxymoron that, like the rest,

is contradictory but makes perfect sense.

Jordan Eve Morral

(Image is of the author)

It’s the trees that make me cry

more than anything.

The hemlock stands strong

with its twigs of green and cones

until the last moment

when snow hides the earth

and deer eat the branches bare.

The red cedar stands alone

in fields long abandoned.

Slow but steady it grows

Only to be chopped for chests and posts.

The blue spruce lives long,

valued for its beauty,

but outgrows its friends

well after they are gone.

The red pine feeds mice and birds of song,

but, in eating the seeds,

these creatures devour descendents.

The catalpa with its beans

would seem exempt from my sorrow,

but it too has flowers that quickly fade.

The syrup maple is kind with abundance,

and thus has its sweet sap stolen

before it ever has a taste of itself.

The reason, my friend, these wood entities

bring such strife and pain

is because of the human struggle they endure.

Mankind inflicts the destruction,

and suffers the denouement.

Jordan Eve Morral

(Image is of the author)