After she died
I looked through three mildewed trunks,
her possessions, the simple things:

a baby’s rattle, brittle photographs,
a blue purse with lipsticks,
a compact

and a small plastic box.
Full of her teeth.
How long their roots!

I asked my husband to take
them to the landfill at night,
afraid someone would think

a whole life had been buried,
afraid the teeth
would form a mouth
and speak.