Kay Mancino

I drop baby teeth

the same way I lose friends

and lovers and children,

shut surface opens when

bitterness stretches out

my gums. Gross pieces replaced,

shifted, loosened, twisted,

yanked by a skinny string. Bodies

regrow when I sleep. Mothers

sink down to babies. Clauses

die, commas give birth

to things final.

It feels


the holding, the drifting, the dying.

The feeling

of a ghost resting

beneath my tongue.

Kay Mancino is a creative writing major pursuing her undergraduate degree at SUNY Purchase. Her short fiction and poetry have been published in several magazines such as Italics Mine, Sandpiper Review, and Submissions Magazine. In her spare time, she crochets and hangs out with her professor’s fifteen-year-old dog, Willa.