2 June 2008 | Vol. 8, No. 2
A Tooth, A Child
Which one did you lose? Point to the black
cavern, sucked empty by the cell in need
of bones. And what else
did she thieve of skin stretched like loose
linen, and blood
turned water? Every gem plucked and reset
in a fresh crown. And now from without
she plunders still—not only the breast, heavy
purse of stolen bread
and window-ledge pies, but also the curl
of black hair you
used to tuck behind your ear, and the gaze
you signaled your husband to bed with. What justice?
What court of animals would sentence such crimes, or
loves displayed diagonally,
a longing unbreachable?
About the author:
Karen Lepri's work appeared in Best New Poets 2006. Her historical writing was published in Yards and Gates, a history of women at Harvard. Karen works as an editor in Boston and has a food blog called The Urban Kale.