We're fine, broken, almost, maybe
teeth black from the core
And when we bite on old, old skin-
we begin to chip apart

A country of dishes

with an island across the bay
to say she's living on the head of a pin
would be an understatement

And we brush
and we clean
and we make ourselves pretty
while she watches from the stairs
she sighs, maybe
but we don't hear
we floss everyday
but out teeth remain yellow