At night, when the outer limits of myself become confused with bedsheets and blankets, my tongue skims my lower mandible in memory of retainers and the dislocation of teeth. Almost a decade since orthodontia, my gums remember the dislocation of the beginning of each month in the newness of mouth. How alien were the regiments of metal and plastic imposed upon my teenage teeth, laying in wait there to greet each new substance which would present itself as a candidate for digestion...

and now my tongue bemoans their absence.