That year we lost
seven teeth between us.
One swallowed down my sister
’s throat as she slept.
Surviving meant an extra quarter
under her pillow and I ached
for that overnight visit, the shiny money,
ached for a molar traveling past
my esophagus and into the well
of my stomach.
Rich.

One more was stubborn,
hanging from the sinewy meat
of my mouth. We tied one end
of a string to its root, the other
to the bathroom door, then slammed.
Out, out, bloody tooth, there
on the floor, diamond
of the damned, grabbed,
rinsed, and readied
for its levy.

Five others were barely accounted,
apple bites and bloody sockets.
Each night, coins appearing like sorcery
under our pillows. Each night, some
added heft to our novelty banks.
Childhood making way
for what was growing
in its place.