for Peter Grandbois

1

A naughty child has left
night’s door ajar.
In a sepia waking,
my mother slams that door,
its porcelain knob tethered
to my loose tooth.
By this method, my tongue
is taught to be still.

2

At the kitchen sink,
my grandmother’s arthritic
claws scurry over the board
where a headless capon
crows a final, defiant boast,
that converges with blood
tongues to circle, backwards,
down the drain’s dark throat.
Thus I am taught to devour silence.

3

After Sunday school, I build
a Tinker Toy Tower of Babel.
In my myth, I scale the gleaming walls
of curiosity’s cabinet where
tiny skulls lurk among labels
and the aspirin tastes like oranges.
Discovered by Mother, I confess
I swallowed one, and one
only, to soothe a toothache.
Her unbelieving fingers force me
to vomit up the truth. I must wait,
I am told, for my father’s return.
Thus I am taught the efficacy of lies.

4

The rooted force the rootless
to release their hold. Each
new tooth rises like a headstone
in a graveyard of dead speech.
As the years progress,
they grow crowded, topple.
Words wear away. The tongue
lies in the mouth like a corpse
in a coffin. Thus I learn
the limits of metaphor.

5

In the final stanza, I sit
alone an in empty room
lit by a pill-sized moon.
I hold one end of a pale thread.
It winds across the floor
into darkness, where the end
is tied to the bone knob
of Death’s open door.
I open my mute mouth wide,
tie my end in a tiny noose
around my last loose tooth.

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