Baby Teeth

by Emma Sheinbaum

Baby teeth grow

through gums only

to fall out, to make room for

more permanent things, but I

only want good things

to be permanent things. I

never let mine go, I would

make them stay, even if

only by a thread of tissue. I

lost my first tooth in first

grade, in a cupcake, and it

was by accident. Mommy

pulled the rest out, and I

made her use numbing cream

so I wouldn’t have to feel it,

even though they were already

detached, just a little hollow tombstone,

a baby tooth shell ready to be shattered

by the permanent tooth forcing

its way in. My first front tooth

was completely grown in while

its baby placeholder was still hanging

on by a single string of root. I stopped

eating in case it fell out, I could feel it

tapping against the permanent

tooth behind it every time I breathed

in and Mommy said it was disgusting, but

that didn’t make it any less scary to let it

disconnect from my mouth. “It’s

just there, it’s already

gone, it’s just there,” she

said until she couldn’t take

looking at me anymore, until

I could barely even hold onto

it anymore; she plucked it, its root

snapped like a guitar string, I heard

it hum but couldn’t feel it even

though Mommy refused

to use the numbing cream—“There

is nothing to numb.

See? It’s already dead.”