Kayleigh Padar
baby teeth
My grandma kept my
baby tooth
tucked in the kitchen cabinet,
among all of the messages
I left on her answering machine,
amid the hours sprawled on her carpet
arranging matchbox cars into
four way stops,
settled in a pile of crusts
cut from ham sandwiches.
My best friend clutched my
baby tooth
in her soft palm as she
outstretched her pinkie in
a promise
that she would always jump
off the jungle gym first and
reach her arms for me,
that she would always curl
my ribbon with the scissors
for our art projects,
that when she finally found
the Loch Ness monster,
I’d be the first to know.
The woman down the block
buried one in her backyard.
The place I snuck to pet
her dog when my house
felt loud.
My first grade teacher
stashed one in the word searches
I never sat still long enough
to solve.
My grownup teeth tore
through soft, baby gums
and left me to
protect one
amongst piles of
overexposed photos
enveloped in flakes of dust.