"Foreign Body"- by Wenshu Wang
When I was eight I swallowed
a loose tooth and for days imagined
it travelling through me as a
tiny white boat: passing my liver, my wet umbrella lungs,
the ticking machinery of my heart. I thought my
body must be full of movement, hidden
channels turning to small rivers
carrying away things we can’t keep.
At urgent care they placed a lead
apron across my chest and asked
me not to move. My mother stood
behind the curtain, peeling the label
from a bottle of water until it curled
around her thumb. The X-ray showed
only the dissolved outline
of a root. It’ll pass, the doctor said. There was nothing
else left to do. For a week I searched
the toilet for some pale death
within myself, something to rinse
clean beneath the tap
and balance on one fingertip.
Nothing surfaced–still, my mother
left a coin beneath my pillow, and by morning
it had warmed to
the temperature of my face. I held it under
my tongue, afraid
I might swallow it too,
easily
and without
warning.
