Teeth
My father kept my baby teeth
in the top drawer of his dresser. Buried
under fabric and dust, pearls chime
against plastic. I remember
when I lost my first tooth,
I was afraid to nestle it beneath my
pillow. I did not want a dollar
in my mouth, metallic tang seeping
into my empty gum. Tissue spotted
with blood as I lose tooth after tooth until
I chew with silver dollars and spit
iron. My father’s nimble
fingers slip under my hair, splayed
over little-kid sheets, and grasp
at jagged, white edges. He keeps
the treasures from my mouth, rolls
baby teeth between his fingers like
marbles. Holds the last part
of infancy, settled into the lines on his
palm. I think about how I cried when
I lost my first tooth in soft dough,
the bagel I was eating raw in my hands. I
spat the tooth onto my lap. We remember
that we never wish to lose
the first things we
grow.
Zoe LaVallee is a senior English and adolescent education major at SUNY Geneseo. She has recently been rediscovering her love of poetry, and is now struggling to stop spitting out words.