For My Grandmother’s Teeth, Pulled When She Was Thirty-six

You wanted teeth the color of milk

warmed in a pan and wrist-kissed,

teeth like tended white roses

cured of black-spot leaves,

but instead got bad gums,

a loosened, receding

smile not all the fluoride

in Louisville could save.

So by the time I was born

all your teeth were nibs of bone,

dead seeds scattered to the nostalgic

strata of iodine and Wonder

Bread bags, of glass

baby bottles, metal

highchairs, wooden

dairy crates—artifacts

of your era idealistic,

heavier, even your disposables

seemingly more permanent but now

shattered to shards, splintered and bent

to intricate lace of rust.

Look: the blown television tubes that

brought the farce of Father Knows Best

rest next to those faithful chewers,

your molars, and the front teeth

you worked so hard to grow

when you were still a child,

the ones knocked loose

when he pushed you down the stairs,

they are there too. But because landfills

can be a place for cut grass and garden

slop, I also see your teeth bound by

a sweeter rot, netted into veins

of wet leaves that remember

spring, mulched into bulbs

of spent iris, those tall, old-fashioned

ladies that while appearing

used up and gone from

this world always

come back.