teratoma

My son lost his front tooth

when he bit my arm 

and I jerked it away.

Every afternoon he spirals 

into a fit of exhausted rage. 

My midlife version is coiled

but I pulled back a little too hard

and the tooth went flying. 

It was his third tooth of the pandemic,

the second in a week. 

Like those dreams 

where my teeth splinter and crumble, 

like the walls of a Berkeley wreck

purchased by friends 

back when two young teachers 

could afford such a thing. 

The husband put his hand 

through drywall like bread dough.

The wife patted it back in place:

No, we need that. 

We believed we could save things

with our hands, though even then,

we smelled our own desperation.

This morning an earthquake hit,

the single-jolt variety,

the sound of wood creaking,

old bones stretching.

When our house stood foreclosed 

three residents ago

it became a party spot.

The evicted owner's teenage son

invited his friends. 

There was beer and a yard,

but no electricity.

Have you ever seen a small child's skull?

The rows of adult teeth waiting 

in vertical wings? 

Behind their perfect skin,

a horror show. 

My son says,

"Maybe I will grow a vampire fang."

My dad told me the richest town near ours

was built on sand 

that would rock during an earthquake 

like a bowl floating in a bowl--

he cupped his hands to show me. 

It wasn't a metaphor,

but I know he envied the homes there:

acreage and old trees and tiled roofs. 

Look, it's easy to see loss upon loss,

all that is stationary becoming sand.

Because it will. 

Because I stopped Googling virus deaths.

Because it's 147,000 now.

But after 17 years of therapy,

sometimes, in the dreams 

where I lose my teeth, 

I tell myself,

Maybe things will work out.

I'll call my dentist. 

And the Berkeley couple 

remodeled a guest house 

that they lend out free

to anyone visiting the neighborhood.

I searched for my son's lost tooth

as he screamed at the sight

of blood on his shirt. 

When I bent down and looked up

I saw it in his nose

like a kernel of corn.

I thought of teratomas,

those tumors with teeth and hair,

and I laughed. 

Tragedy plus time and all.

Even if the time is minutes,

even if we never quite catch our breath.

What world is this, 

where a parody of life 

springs from tumors 

that are, mostly, benign.