A Poem by Abbie Kiefer: ‘Abecedarian With Sensodyne’

A hard smart under hot wash of coffee.
Beneath the pulped swell of winter
citrus or a sharp draw of winter air. Not
delicately, Dr. Wayne tested each molar
etched through. In sleep I will
fit one to another and scrape. What
gnaws at me: my own mouth, now
hindered and harbored by this night guard.
In the day, set aside, its plastic holds a phantom
jaw. Dr. Wayne advised softer bristles,
kinder hand. Even in care, I have
long justified roughness. He said Maybe this:
mint paste spiked with potassium
nitrate, clinically proven to hush the howl
of bared nerves. He said You might
practice relaxing. Let the querulous be
quelled. Enamel, harder than bone—
relentless bones of my fingers or the sort
some dogs won’t let go of. Listen. I’m going to
tell you a secret: Where there
used to be space, I have two half-
veneers. Resin patches in the gap. Now
Wayne and you and my stark
X-rays know the truth: I’ve wanted wholeness,
yes, and I’ve rasped at what was whole. One doesn’t
zero out the other.