by Hannah Dow
She buries lost teeth in the garden, wishbone
child. Asking for a sister, bone from her bone.
So many holes around the yard, even the dog
will not walk outside to recover another bone.
We hunt for something to sustain us. Possess
us. Something more than fur & bone.
She fears what is beneath the earth beneath
her fingernails. Cobwebs white like mother’s bone-
china. In the cabinet, yellow teacups wear chipped
white smiles. Forget their teeth are bone.
A spade. Our senseless violence toward the earth.
Irreverence for the dead. Turn down bone after bone.
Hannah Dow is a PhD student at the University of Southern Mississippi's Center for Writers, where she is an Associate Editor for Mississippi Review. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Harpur Palate, American Literary Review, and The Open Bar at Tin House, among others. She also received an honorable mention in the 2015 AWP Intro Journals Project.