I shake them out like dice,
relics from another age.
They are evidence
of softer years,
still stained at the sharp end
by touches of blood,
knuckles of moon
blossomed
from raw gums.
New-borns, levered out,
usurped.
They were hardly held.
Now in dreams
my mouth
fills with teeth
I spit them out,
one by one, until
they are all gone.
Published in Literary Mama