Letter I Should Have Written Before June 2, 2019

COHORT 6

Nestled in shiny pink gums,

they sat submerged

in a plastic cup: 32 teeth

versus me. I refused to blink—

but your gurgle laugh

interrupted the staredown.

Watch, you said, and popped the teeth

into your mouth. I gaped;

you grinned, your bright eyes clearer,

then. We both laughed at a child’s surprise

that the body can replace.

And remove. And erase.

A set of false teeth, a wheelchair,

blurred face.

I know while movement for us

was home to home, yours was a fleeing,

a panic, a prayer

from home to hut to here. Whole

means nothing now. But if I could,

I would return to Saturday.

I would feel your paper hand rest

against my right leg.

I would hear

your rattle breath and listen to you explain:

why daughters—why, daughters

mean no whole, no nothing, no name.

Writing: Kaitlyn Wang

Art: Kayleigh Schweiker

Music: Arina Oberoi