Here where we still exist

By Allie Olvera

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In the basement of my mother’s house
lives a generation of baby teeth.
Sets that once grew in her body, too,
back when we were hers.

The old bits of us live jumbled inside an Altoids tin;
bleeding molars we twisted out before they were ready,
then tucked sweetly under pillows.
I don’t know where my sisters end and I begin.

Waves tear at the sandcastle.
Relationships sour,
memories tarnish,
but our enamel sits unchanged.

These teeth will go must go somewhere
when she dies and the house is sold.
Time turned me into a
burden for a family not yet known.

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Allie Olvera is a writer and educator living in Oaxaca, Mexico. Her writing has appeared in Trash Cat Lit and other publications. Find more at allieolvera.com. @allie.olvera