TEETH

Flung from her mouth in horror
or in fit (I am still unsure)
(and white beneath my sheets)
a gleam catches, fluorescent,
on the polish of her rounding ivories.
Moulded substitutes of bone and latching gum
now sit unsure
perched on the counter
as if ready for second flight.

Given gladly to her
whilst between wars and men
the release of her natural fixtures
an afterthought
of trend (that ugly cow).

Her teeth
(or are they?)
await return on the tabletop.
She is slow to claim them.