free teeth: george washington #1 (1789-1797)

by Wesley R. Bishop

A line of corn. Dry. Pale. Pressed into gum. When Washington opened his mouth the rows shine. Not gold. Not wood. Teeth. Taken. Each one, a previous name. A man. A woman. A child. Pulled. Ripped up. Forced. Set into ivory. He chewed with them. He smiled. In portraits, his lips are tight though. Holding the field. Holding the harvest. His jaw a locked gate. The teeth do not speak. But they remember. Each kernel once warm, alive. Once soft with blood’s possibility. Now dead. Now still. Now animated anew. The Father of this Nation spoke of liberty. He wore its cost in his mouth.

Click here to read Wesley’s bio!