Pulling Teeth

for Gwen

Jennie lost her
   wisdom teeth. Jennie gifted Gwen
                     her wisdom teeth. Gwen brought
   Jennie’s teeth to metal-smithing
night-class. Sutured on wire and bead.

              Gwen wore Jennie’s teeth. Over
                 sweaters, above boxers. Cubic teeth.
              Triangular, maxillary teeth.

I went to Roswell last spring. Gwen’s home
town, not ours. I wanted to see
her dad’s house, maybe.
Her grave, maybe. Her dad sent me

a text. Might I suggest the Chattahoochee
Nature Center, instead. More suggestions.
A butterfly festival, sure. Blessings.

On Gwen’s birthday,
I went to David Berman’s grave. Light split
over icicles and I rubbed snow off the headstones.
Sheepish, searching. I should say it.

Gwen died. Only after did
   Jennie/Ian and Lena/me orbit each
               other, attracted by grief. Us four. Us
   five. Us all. None of us
could find Gwen’s necklace.
                    Jennie’s teeth.

Ides of March

March’s first moon and I am
thinking about my affection for you.

I keep waking to skies blue as a gradient,
so pristine. We call. I tell you about winter.

Desperate for food, I shot a rabbit. Blood
on the snow, a good day’s feast. After,

I touch myself. I imagine your body
impressed in the hunch of the sheets.

Spring comes with a quiet flurry.
Comeuppance would be sweet.

Katherine Oung is a journalist and writer. Their poems can be found or are forthcoming in Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Foglifter Journal, Sine Theta Magazine, and elsewhere. Their nonfiction writing can be found in The New York Times, The Nashville Scene, No Bells Magazine, and elsewhere.