She brought the tombstone home
and stood at the kitchen sink, scrubbing it.
It was small, the size of a phone book, #17.
On the numbers one and seven she used a toothbrush.
Not me. I am the one who stood at the kitchen sink
and dropped her teeth in a glass of water.
After they fizzed for a while
everything happened as it should.
I called a friend who seemed to know my name
but his voice was far away
like in a wet field or something.
What has that woman got to do with me? I wondered.
And then I began to pray.
Please don’t step on our sleeping village.
Many private conversations will be crushed.