Two poems


Spring Cleaning

Clearing out a cupboard reveals teeth

in a box like sacred relics, old baby

bones, broken and cracked

with age. Hoary wives whisper Bury

them in the garden… and so what

will grow? The time has passed,

since your toothy 3-year-old smile

at a streetlight answered my request

to feel soft flesh, warm and pliable

to touch, a hand I made from scratch,

in my own. Your No a shock, stopped

me dead in my tracks. Why? Because,

you insisted. You had already enclosed

something else in empty fists & moved on,

exposing a world in your mind with no door

for me to wander through, have a look,

sit for a while, ponder my place. Baby

teeth fill my palm - a past part of you

like a missing link - the gaps, now straightened

caries, wisdom extracted fourfold. They leave

me queasy yet captivated by the vastness

of those minute vacant spaces.