Erica W. Adams

Close to the universe you begin to see mouths in everything. Wide red lipped things with ivories to shock little boys back into bed. Instead of horror, I have found safety.

It became a game, counting the rows of teeth possible in a tiny trap. Some big molars, others sharp and exact. The mouths are never closed, always open. Always stretching wider.

Sharks do not have teeth anchored to the jaw. They are sunk into the flesh. If they lose one, they replace it in the next row. It is a conveyor belt. It is evolutionary.

To see a mouth in everything is sublime. It is encouraging. I sew mouths onto my gowns, as Queen Elizabeth had her velvets embroidered with eyes and ears. She was the sight and sound of her kingdom. I am the mouth to the world.

I am saving the milk teeth of the neighborhood children. I am their fairy, leaving behind small change. At night, I stitch them into the roof of my mouth. It is a chapel. I multiply.







It is encouraging.






My days are spent in contemplation of the birth of an entity, conceived from the love thrusts of the colonialist imagination and the psilocybin mushroom.