A week ago a surgeon
peeled my lower gums
and slid in paper thin
grafts gleaned from
cadavers, slices of skin
stitched in and lashed
around my teeth, alien
tissue, purged of DNA,
anonymous and plain.
When my mouth feels
itself again, we’ll see
if my whistle’s still
shrill enough to rattle
glasses off the shelf,
soft enough to coax
a shadow off the wall.
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