Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

With the scraping tool in the back

of my mouth she asks, Do you have 

any poems you’re working on right now? 

She retracts the tool. I tell her I’m thinking about how God 

named Eve “mother,” but neither she nor Adam knew what 

that word meant. Ah, yes. Eve. The split of the twin flame. 

You know, they made whole churches just for Mary. 

I hum, sort of. She cleans, scrapes, and scrapes me clean. 

The sun is male and water is female. All the rain 

and water, that’s women. We’re seeing that coming 

back, like it should. Men just have certain jobs.

I gag on the suction tool, and she wipes the spit

from my chin. She tells me my gum health has improved

since last year. I give her a thumbs-up she can’t see. 

In my skull, my teeth shine and ache. 

Good for biting. Good for eating fruit.