Baby Teeth

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I keep my son’s teeth on my desk
I keep his curls in a jar
I keep the scratches on the wall,
That show me where he once stood,
And I keep his teeth on my desk.

There’s no longer any air in this house
That once passed through his lungs
And I’m sure time has smudged
All of his fingerprints away
There’s a tree out back
That he planted when he was five,
And I keep his teeth on my desk.

I wonder where that duck is now,
The one I gave to Goodwill.
Who is wearing his shirts?
Stacking his blocks?
Pushing his trains?
Who is running through a backyard, their hot, red blood coursing through MY son’s heart?
These pieces of him were all given away,
But I keep his teeth on my desk.

At any time, I can open the box
And see both of them
(He swallowed one and the rest are in the ground with him)
I can touch them, touch him, any time I want,
I can almost call him back,
So I keep his teeth on my desk.