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My Father’ Teeth

Dying on this wind still October morning
he looks at the teeth in his hands
yellow, shrunken, his own, pulled by a guard
for some stupid infraction: smiling
at the beets, pissing out of turn,
dreaming of the way his mother spoke of mares
sleeping beneath the trees in the field

He wonders, how can he use them: bead them
for a rosary, sell them for souvenirs?
He knows God has answered all the prayers
He will, and tired of the camps even he
no longer looks for Magdeburg on the maps

 

 

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©1999 John Guzlowski

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