JESS FIEBIG
Milk Teeth
at eleven I had been walking home for years,
slipping off my shoes in the kitchen,
stuffing wine biscuits into the pockets of my
blue gingham school dress,
wandering our flat looking for something to do
the television didn’t work
and often I would find myself
in my mothers closet
admiring her dresses
paying special attention to a rust coloured slip
that shimmered like orange water
falling from its hanger
on her dresser was an empty bottle of perfume,
baby blue with a single red stripe around the stem
I’d sniff the cap
smoky plum and spices,
close my eyes to
draw my arms around her soft neck
I could sit at the foot of that unmade bed for hours,
turning the bottle gently in my hand
sunlight making its
way across the room
only once I went through her drawers,
finding treasures I could not explain;
a fake Rolex, a blackened teaspoon,
and a tiny porcelain box
filled with milk teeth.