BPR 53 | 2026
My Mother’s Teeth—died twice, once
in 1965, all pulled out from gum
disease. Once again on August 3,
2015. The fake teeth sit in a box in the
garage. When she died, I touched
them, smelled them, thought I heard a
whimper. I shoved the teeth into my
mouth. But having two sets of teeth
only made me hungrier. When my
mother died, I saw myself in the
mirror, her words around my mouth
like powder from a donut. Her last
words were in English. She asked for
a Sprite. I wonder whether her last
thought was in Chinese. I wonder
what her last thought was. I used to
think that a dead person’s words die
with them. Now I know that they
scatter, looking for meaning to attach
to like a scent. My mother used to
collect orange blossoms in a small
shallow bowl. I pass the tree each
spring. I always knew that grief was
something I could smell. But I didn’t
know that it’s not actually a noun but a
verb. That it moves.
from OBIT, Copper Canyon Press, 2020