Coffin, a poem

coffin

this milestone
gets a modest box,
wood but unfancy,
small but roomy enough
to fit a few others
(though after awhile
these burials
will become sloppy).

the first to go:
mandibular central incisor,
letter P,
the right bottom tooth.
its placeholder, #25,
was already in behind,
leaving us no gap to make fun of,
no unimaginative nickname
like toothless.

P didn't earn her much.
the tooth fairy fumbled in the dark
with his father's coin collection,
grasping a 50-cent piece.
daddy called it a silver dollar
when she awoke and ran
through the house in her underpants,
waving the prize,
squealing with delight.

a few weeks later,
when letter O departed,
the grownup version in place,
the tooth fairy overslept
and had to slip the coin
beneath her pillow
when she got up to pee,
disappointed,
til dad urged her to look again.

now two teeth are buried here
in this modest box,
two tiny hollow bones
buried by a mother
grieving the loss of a baby,
celebrating the birth
of a girl.


Leslie F. Miller