A Three-Minute Instagram Poem

Teeth, 1998

D—— and I meet at Bar Italia.
She is madly in love and I tell her to take the girl to Hawaii.
She stares. I just bought the tickets, she says.
We eat tiny seasoned mushrooms and strong white cheese on grilled crunchy bread. I will often think of and taste this loud, almost sexually violent, meal.
Have you heard from, er. J— she says.
No, no. I don’t really know her.
Well. I guess she wants help?
D—holds a glass of red wine to her rich wild-berry lips.
She said she had no teeth? she says and we burst out laughing.
What is with J—?
It’s not funny, really.
No, it’s sad, we say, dispensing of the older woman’s obvious ruin.
As if she were trying to take something vital from us, we scurried away.
J— died not long after.
She couldn’t get work; her days as an esteemed ______ were over.
Her mind was folding in.
Merciless girls pounded by her window all night in jackhammer shoes, stinking of come.
The older women first are turned into lone wolves and then they are shot.
The first bullet goes in the mouth.
Her teeth blow up like icicles falling from a hot roof.
She shuts up also.
_My teeth my teeth_ the girls say in funny old lady voices and order more wine and spread their wet legs.
Lick their lips.
The only time D—kissed me I did that I licked my lips.