I lost my girlhood when my brother ripped out my first baby tooth.
I can still rummage through my mother’s attic to find the
VHS tape of him holding the small bleeding thing with his hands
as if it were a rock bass he had just caught down at Lake Apopka.
I told my palm reader this and she insisted I find all of my baby teeth
and burn them to ash. I don’t. I keep them in my nightstand, though, most nights
I am eager to flick my lighter in the little girl’s direction, burn
each tooth to ash, bury each crumb into the dirt so I will not be reminded
of things that used to be mine to hold. It would be easier, I know,
but instead, I am determined to suck on each tooth
like a cherry sour until it is sweet enough for me to spit out.
One day, when I am done, I will rest them on my kitchen windowsill. Dry them
by the wishbones I save. Like a stuffed rock bass hung on a living room wall
I will find pride in preserving a slaughtered thing.