Tooth Book
During my first trip to the dentist in years, radiographs revealed that there was something buried in my gums. Since I was too old for it to be an impacted tooth growing out sideways like an infinity symbol, I knew something strange was going on. When the object was removed weeks later, it turned out to be a tiny book that was causing my problems. How could that be? I asked my oral surgeon. I was told he had never seen anything like it in his life. He asked if he could keep it for further study and I told him no. When I examined the book at home, it appeared hand-carved and made of bone, but was it mine or had it been implanted there? There was no title on the cover that I could find. Was it a dream journal? A book of my hip-hop lyrics? A novel that somehow wrote itself while I chewed and slept? A book of my anatomy? A key to the white city of my imagination? To my disappointment, the pages appeared to be blank or maybe they had eroded away over time. I thought about all the books that grow inside people unread or unwritten. And I thought about all the stringed words that will one day die inside me. I wondered how much the enameled book would go for back in my childhood. And if it was worth it to have it cut out and removed from the red house of my gums. If every mouth begins as an organ of speechlight, then maybe every graveyard ends as a library. I placed the book under my pillow that night before I went to sleep. When I woke up in the morning, it had been replaced with a wreath of pomegranate seeds. And the room around me smelled like a burning church of bone.
Ghost Theft Auto
I found an ad on Craigslist one evening for a rare invisible Camaro IROC-Z. After contacting the seller, we arranged to meet. When I showed up at his house, he said the car was parked inside his garage. As we stepped inside, I was puzzled to find only a pet snake but no car. Then I realized that I might’ve walked into a setup. Where’s the car? I asked him. It’s invisible, remember? he said. Oh, right, I said. Cool. I paid for the car in cash and drove off after trading paperwork. I can’t wait to drive this thing through a carwash, I thought. After the first red light I stopped at, a patrol vehicle activated its sirens and lights and pulled me over. Not long after, I was face down on the asphalt with guns pointed at me. One of the officers said I matched the description of a brown suspect who had stolen an invisible car in the area. Really? I thought. Another invisible car? Luckily for me, I was released and didn’t have to be taken in nor did I have to forfeit my life. I returned home and parked my car in the parking space in front of my apartment. When I woke up the next morning, my car was missing. I thought about calling the police to report it stolen, but I didn’t want to be the reason an innocent person of color ended up on the news for being gunned down. Then I spotted a snake slithering in midair above my parking space and I knew the car was still there waiting for me to take it for another spin.
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Anuel Rodriguez is a Mexican-American poet living in the San Francisco Bay Area. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Threepenny Review, Nightmare Magazine, Waxwing, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Blackbird, and elsewhere.