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A whirr of sanitized machines

vile odors of adhesive

and ceramic filed to fit

tap-tap, grind sideways now

they say. One final push

a sudden twinge of glue

and all’s emplaced

while I lie cumbent in epoxy dreams

and wait for permanent cement

to seal, recalling mandibles

from interglacial pits;

tale-telling teeth that burials

at Thebes now yield; blue bits

of lapis on enamel

of brush-licking scribes

and wonder if a thousand years downstream

some robot paleo-this or -that

will brush soil from the remnants

of my lower jaw and ponder

what I ate, how aged,

and analyze my molars’

patterned wear or clues

preserved in dessicated plaque

for the elusive being it’s programmed

to pursue and try to corner there.

The Raven's Perch (Dec. 20, 2021)

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