Mom says that my teeth are perfect.
Perfect brother has just gotten braces on his top four front teeth
a tiny railroad bridge connecting nothing
and mom says that my teeth are perfect.
At last my quiet mouth, the overlook, the swallowed
feelings have all paid off
and cultured something perfect
and mine.
My mouth is a music box
stuffed with pearls.
Perfect brother is tall
and lean
eats whatever he wants.
One time a whole box of oatmeal cream pies.
But it is clearer each day that my baby fat
is no longer baby fat
but just fat.
It is clearer each day that I will not be a ballerina.
I had wanted to be a ballerina.
My mouth is a music box.
A small girl spins gracefully at the back of my throat
on point.
I am sure if I can just reach far enough back I could still
have her grace.
I reach for her every night after dinner while the bathtub fills.
Until one day the health teacher shows us a photo
of a mouth crammed full of broken, yellowed dishes
says that a side effect of Bulimia
is ruined teeth
but Mom said that my teeth were perfect.
And my perfect is a ransom I cannot bring myself to pay
for the spinning girl
so I swallow her
and then nothing more for 4 whole days.
My mouth is a music box,
plays a low gear grinding that puts me to sleep.
When I do not wake up any closer to the spinning girl
encircled in pink tulle
but rather still a ravenous hollow encircled in overgrowth
I sneak down to the pantry and devour an entire box of
oatmeal cream pies in the dark
before going upstairs to brush my perfect teeth one at a time.