The Room of Teeth

A room filled with teeth arranged in spiraling patterns on the floor, pointing inward toward the empty center where you stand. Teeth neither human nor animal—roots too long, trailing like tails, some still wet. Walls soft and yielding, warm, remembering your handprint when you press against them. Ceiling getting lower each time you look. The teeth standing up now, clicking against each other in rhythmic communication, learning your name. Mirror on one wall showing a smile too wide, rows of teeth going back forever down the throat. The spiral spinning slowly. The center where you stand beginning to lower. Not a floor. A tongue. The room is a mouth. The teeth grew here. Something is closing. Something is savoring.