Dreams about Teeth

Lately I've been sleeping the wan, creaky sleep of an old woman--as though I'm one of those ancient characters in Southern fiction, rocking through the twilight, gauzy memories floating through my half-conscious brain of my barefoot childhood and snakes; the jilt that left me living with my spinster sister in this yellow house after daddy died.

When REM and I have met up in the last weeks, more often than not, the union produces sleep more troubling than restful. The other night I had the most horrifying nightmare since childhood. In it, a friend (a real friend, a trusted friend--a friend I know well and who knows me, too) chased me through the woods, pinned me on the forest floor and then bashed the teeth out of my mouth with a hammer. The dream was so real and terrifying that I woke up crying, searching my pillow for blood and lost molars.

I dream about teeth frequently. I don't know why. Once, when I told Laura about it she said Well, yeah... it makes total sense. You're always talking about teeth, too. About teeth and smiles and mouths and lipstick. Face it: You're a freak. I didn't believe her at the time, but now I see she's right. There are the ridiculous poems about my last boyfriend, how I loved him for his teeth and the way that his left handed formed the letter A on the page. Once I wrote a short story that began with "My father's singular goal in life was to marry a girl with good teeth." The last line was even worse.

I don't like this about myself--that I have some sort of subconscious(?) obsession in the first place is bad enough. But that it should be about teeth, of all things. How weird. How Freudian and gross.