across a wound, with great vehemence
more strong than the simple untested surface before.
There's a name for it on horses,
when it comes back darker and raised: proud flesh,
as all flesh
is proud of its wounds, wears them
as honors given out after battle,
small triumphs pinned to the chest--"
--Jane Hirshfield, from For What Binds Us
I find myself imagining that my teeth are truly at battle sometimes, as they are covered in metal armor, offering protection to dentin, enamel, and precious roots inside. Or sometimes I imagine my teeth as young soldiers on the front lines, tightly grabbing their bayonets with wide-open, frightened stares, not knowing what to do exactly. (And certainly not knowing which way to go.) If you replace the word flesh for teeth in this poem, there is something noble in the undertaking of any long term venture like traveling the world, or falling in love where you will ache, you will bleed, and yes, even as I wince writing the word, you can suffer, but you will also find hold your back straighter with your knowing proud flesh and its quiet dignity being given the gift of endurance.
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