Baby Teeth

None of my baby teeth fell out naturally.
While the other kids in my first grade class
would show off the gaps in their teeth--
like they had just uncovered wishing wells
behind their lips--
mine wouldn’t budge.

My adult teeth got impatient,
bullied their way up to the front row,
pushed the underclassmen to the back.
I didn’t know how to relate to other kids,
envied the courage between my mandibles.
I had the mouth of a shark
with the voice of a shrimp.

Then the dentist decided
to take away my bite.
One by one,
rebellion was expelled from my gums.
The roots were as long as leopard claws.
Was it a form of self protection?
A knife to sharpen my tongue?
Each extraction, I could taste
the blood for days.
Does a perfect smile
always cause this much pain?

By that age, I knew the tooth
fairy wasn’t real. Still,
I put them under my pillow;
waited for my consolation prize.
Cheeks stuffed with gauze,
hair matted on a grinning
Mickey Mouse pillowcase,
these were the hardest nights to sleep:
I could hear them scratching
for hours.