When my grandfather died, I lost my first tooth,
and we placed him inside a dark box, like a tooth

under my linen pillowcase, swapped in sleep
for a twenty dollar bill. Now the tooth

is valued at an average of four hundred
 and seventy one cents. He fought nail and tooth

as the tumor in his stomach grew roots
and the food at his table no longer needed teeth.

That morning my mother let me sleep, but then I woke and saw 
crowded in her wet mouth, dozens of teeth,

like the ones found in sediment that was once shallow ocean
two hundred sixty million years ago, unburied shark teeth

that survived mass extinction even when the bodies could not.
My brother, his namesake, was still teething

and latched onto my mother at the funeral.
I stayed home and played ivory keys, once the teeth

of a great tusked animal. My mother photographs memories
on sepia film and tells me show your teeth,

but exposing my pearls sparks fear, so in the bathroom glass 
I practice eating myself with my own teeth

like a baleen whale swallowing krill, filtering
joy from brine. I forgot to brush my teeth,

so now my gold-crowned mouth makes me royalty,
The novocaine numbs not just my tooth

but my entire meaning. Sophia means wisdom like a pearl but 
that quality was removed along with those teeth. 

I wonder if my mother regrets the reminder 
of all that I am not, our words bite with sharp teeth

like those of the dress that does not quite zip
over her hips. The cat holds a bird in its teeth

as an apology, forgiveness is wise enough, 
I tell her when pink lipstick stains her white teeth  

and she wipes the fault away with her finger, blame on both sides, 
so we hold on to this fragile world by the skin of our teeth.