Small Bones

Three teeth in a ziplock bag.

Her nightstand. Next to the glasses,

the crossword pen.

Not labeled. Could be mine.

Could be my brother's.

I tilted my hand and they clicked

like tiny dice nobody was rolling.

She kept them forty years.

Never said a word.

The funeral didn't get me.

This did. Three small bones

from mouths she used to wipe

with her thumb, still holding

their roots in a sandwich bag

beside the life she was living

when she stopped.