Viviana Kuri

Self Portrait

2020

She opened her mouth in a burst of forthright, infectious laughter, revealing, without embarrassment, her bare pink gums.

She told me she had once had five children. She hadn’t heard from them for years, didn’t even know where they were. Now she was alone.

Once, I opened the door to her room, which she always kept firmly bolted. I discovered a pile of clothing, rags, and trash. If there was a bed there at all, it was invisible, buried under the junk.

I pulled out my four front teeth, the upper incisors. I did it so that there would be room for the new ones to grow. But suddenly, I was apprehensive. What if those were the good ones? What if I had pulled out my permanent teeth and left myself toothless?

Some strange women arrived, whom I recognized in my dream. “I’m so sorry,” I told them, “I just pulled out my teeth!” “Oh, don’t worry,” they replied to reassure me, “You can’t even tell.”

It was just as well. At the end of the dream, my good teeth grew in. Strong ones.