The first molar appears on a Tuesday. You’re sitting in the dentist’s waiting room, flipping through a six-month-old issue of People, when you glance out the window and see it—a grey, pitted thing hanging low over the parking lot, its roots dangling like frayed ropes. The hygienist calls your name before you can panic.
“Open wide,” she says. You do. Her glove snaps. The drill whines. You try to say something about the sky, but her fingers are in your mouth.
By Friday, the entire stratosphere has gone dental. Incisors scrape the horizon at dawn. Canines puncture the afternoon light. You stand in line at Starbucks watching molars drift like icebergs above the freeway. The barista asks if you want oat milk. You stare at her. Can’t you see it? But she’s already turning to the next customer.
At home, your lover traces your collarbone. “You’ve been quiet,” they murmur. Their hand moves to your jaw. “Grinding your teeth again?”
You want to scream: The sky is a god’s mouth and we’re all just food waiting to be chewed. Instead, you count their ribs in the dark—each one a curved bone, ivory-smooth. Outside, the moon glows like a wisdom tooth pushing through gum tissue.
The weather app says clear skies. You laugh until your stomach cramps.
Sunday morning at Whole Foods, a little girl tugs her mother’s sleeve. “Mommy, why are the clouds pointy?” Your cart jerks to a halt.
The mother doesn’t look up from her phone. “Don’t be silly, sweetheart. Clouds are soft.”
You follow them through produce, your pulse rabbiting. The girl keeps glancing up, her eyes wide and wet. At checkout, you slip a chocolate bar into her tiny hand. “For noticing,” you whisper. Her fingers close around it like a secret.
That night, you press your lover’s palm to your bare chest. “Feel that? That’s the root. That’s where it’s growing.” They kiss your forehead, humoring you. You used to find this comforting.
The news reports strange weather patterns. Satellite images show nothing unusual. Your boss emails about Q3 projections. You reply with a screenshot of the radar—those unmistakable shapes, those bone-white curves—and HR schedules a “wellness chat.”
You start collecting things:
– A baby tooth in a matchbox (found in the garden)
– Denture adhesive (just in case)
– Every documentary about deep-sea creatures (their teeth never stop growing)
Your lover sleeps while you watch the ceiling. Plaster cracks form familiar grooves. You press your tongue to your own molars, testing for looseness. Outside, the wind whistles through unseen gaps. It sounds like breathing.
The dentist leaves a voicemail: “Your night guard is ready.” You let it play three times before deleting.
At the park, the little girl from Whole Foods builds a sandcastle. You sit beside her, careful not to scare. “They’re called cumulonimbus,” she informs you, patting a tower into shape. “But I think they’re more like shark teeth.”
You help her dig a moat. For one hour, the sky doesn’t hurt.
Lucien R. Starchild is an Indigenous, enigmatic poet/writer and cosmic dreamer, weaving tales that blur the line between reality and the surreal. Born under a wandering star, he draws inspiration from forgotten myths, celestial whispers, and the hidden magic of everyday life. He has been published in Piker Press, Tales From the Moonlit Path, Festival for Poetry, Ink Without Borders, Flash Phantoms, and the Eunoia Review.
Facebook: Lucien R. Starchild
Instagram: @altwav