Sweet Tooth
And a napkin in my lap.
There is a poem in Victoria Chang’s collection, Obit, that contains my favorite sentence put down on paper: When my mother died, I saw myself in the mirror, her words in a ring around my mouth, like powder from a donut. I recited the line back to Victoria when I met her a few years ago, my hand moving around my own mouth, like I was wiping it with a wet cloth. I had removed my notes and whatever other mementos I had stuffed between the pages of her book before handing it to her, tucking the stack under my arm. I thought it was better to offer something clean and tidy. I always jump when someone tells me there are remains or smudges lingering on my skin, visible for them to see. There are crumbs everywhere if I leave them—proof that I sat down at the table and pulled in my chair. Proof that I have an appetite; that my stomach will speak for me if I leave it unattended. What a thing to fear: not just admitting that you wanted, but that you listened to that want.
Last year, in an attempt to build a new understanding of my body, I paused when it felt like a certain part of me was blinking for attention, and would listen by putting a glass up to it, trying to figure out what it was looking for. The thing it whispered was usually an object. An image I could then tie to that part of myself. Examples would be: hot air balloon heart, fish tank gut, wind chime throat, rocking horse feet, and so on. Each time it felt like finding something in an attic, and I would have to decide if I wanted to carry it back downstairs, give it a good scrub. Or maybe it was okay to let it carry some of its dust. Let it rub off on me. The idea was not to think too hard or force something to fit into a box, but just locate the feeling and distill it into something real, that I could then cross paths with in the world. It’s similar to hearing someone on the phone, explaining to the person on the other end what something looks like so they can find and retrieve it, except I was the one both explaining and retrieving. What happens when you allow yourself to pop up unexpectedly on an afternoon walk, when you crane your lighthouse beam neck, and see a green balloon floating behind you? When you recognize your eyes—not in another pair of eyes—but in a telescope?
These days, the part lit up and flashing is my tongue. A symbol on the dashboard. I never know when there’s going to be a sudden jolt—a handful of Pop Rocks poured into my mouth, dancing haphazardly and knocking each other down. Notes in my phone are always about savoring, biting, tasting. In January, I added “a song you sent me about spit” as a new entry in the cry log. Salty tears make their way to the same spot, never really leaving. The cloud is refilled, like a fountain recycling, always flowing through one single house. I’m asked to wander around the creaky floors, looking for the thing I really want to taste. Or perhaps the thing I can taste with, that will cradle every bud.
One of my earliest childhood memories is of my mom taking me to a bakery in Ithaca that had a window display full of treats, but my balloon always floated toward the smiley face sugar cookies. Each one was designed to have its own personality. Their features were distinct; their expressions all slightly different. My task (assigned to myself) was to find the face I wanted to take with me. I looked at it and it looked at me. Perhaps this is where I first learned that sweetness hides behind and underneath. That you can be drawn to something else first. That joy comes from seeing and having an instinct. But for the purpose of this essay, and in trying to locate the object I need, I want to explore the sweetness. Dig out the pint of ice cream buried in the snow, following my own footsteps from hours before.
I started baking as soon as I could climb up on the step stool in my parents’ kitchen. My birthdays were celebrated with sheet cakes intricately iced with my favorite characters, and plastic containers lined with rows of cupcakes for my classmates. For the holidays, I’d choose which pies we would make and I’d move the mixer around the glass bowl until a single large lump of dough was stuck in the center. When no one was looking, I would pinch off a piece of the raw crust, roll it into a ball, and flatten it into a pancake between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. The only time I remember lying to my dad was when I tried to hide an oven-fresh cookie behind my back as I ran upstairs to my bedroom, feeling a gooey chocolate chip leaving its mark on my palm, as I told him I didn’t have anything in my hands. I was never afraid of getting myself dirty, unless it was tied to my own pleasure.
By now you’ve probably realized I’m not just talking about taste, or have spotted that desire is coursing through all my senses. My eyes want to be touched, my ears want to be fed, my nose wants to be licked. Even when I whisper, there is a hunger. The pressure used when I press my pen makes up for my voice and increases the volume. It’s written everywhere. My notes are spoons gathering in the sink, each smeared with a trace of something sugary. Something for me to go back to when I get a midnight craving:
carefully moved your body so i could put a rainbow on your shoulder blade
“found a piece of your hair here last night”
smell of something that is not me on my skin
yellow light you may not see
it’s you, a bird, flapping your wings
and i am a nest, made of twigs
can see your face when i think of you now,
dancing through my hallway to impossible soul
no idea what is happening outside once i see you through the door
how many times can i come back?
wearing one of my socks
searching for my earring back on your floor
notes in my phone that mean something to just me, maybe you: sister chips
giving me back a sticky note
like a knot in a cherry stem, it’s not a bad thing
just something i spun with my own mouth
the rainbow returns and lands on my hip bone
(what if i somehow removed the you and me,
described us just through what is left?
two night babies sharing a magic cookie
what if we could split the absence?)
“…there aren’t enough songs about perspective”
If I were to write a song about perspective, with a melody I could hum as I wandered through the grocery store aisles, I think it would look and sound something like my scattered notes. There would be no sense to it. It would end suddenly, like a daydream, interrupted by my car’s emergency brake. All things end, whether or not we know when. But sometimes if we’re lucky (or not), we get multiple endings. Drop something on the ground and it’ll bounce and roll and disappear. Isn’t that what memory is? Isn’t that what grief is? Isn’t that—at times—what love is? Losing and finding, only when you move the couch months later, when you’re not prepared for it. But when meeting something again, even if it looks different, you usually find the want was never lost. It was stuck between your teeth like a popcorn kernel. And still, I’m always afraid of dropping the ball. I thought and wrote so much about losing that I didn’t even realize I wasn’t holding anything. I found a way to give away my hopes when they were still warm, or tossed them to the top of the closet where I couldn’t see or reach them. But then a bird came along and helped me take them down just before the shelf started to sink, and pecked at my fingers until I could feel them again—leaving seeds and sprinkles of water every time it dipped back toward me.
I’m still looking for the object; my tongue outstretched, waiting for a snowflake to land and dissolve. I’m looking for the ways to not just describe my body, but the things it feels now that the room is rearranged. Under the rug is another scrap, leading me closer:
11/29/25
spilled a drawer full of words,
watched them fall to the floor, between the cracks
wondered how many times i could pick up after saying okay
wondered if there was a hidden drawer of ‘okays’
watched a mattress
secured onto the roof of a car with one bungee cord
make it over the train tracks
followed by two Christmas trees
one wrapped in a bed sheet, covered in tiny trees
everything is fragile but can still be saved
can still hold on
can be protected in its own image
phone automatically taking me to your address,
telling me i’m five minutes away
no tracks to cross or cracks to trip on
Maybe that’s the answer. Maybe it’s about trusting one bungee cord to get you home safe, even when your definition of home is expanding. Even when you don’t know the turns as well. And beneath the cord—stretching and moving with me—is the thing that helps me dream: my memory foam tongue, cushioning every flavor. Telling me when it’s okay to return, when it’s okay to try something new, and when to make a plate for the person beside me.
The blinking has stopped. My heart has landed on the ground again. I’m finding joy in looking at the face I chose. And taking turns pushing in each other’s chairs. And not wiping each other’s mouths when something clings in the corners.