From Dirt

I stared down the well
as my grandmother pulled
up water by the bucketful.

There was a vastness
to the darkness from which
the water emerged.

I could hear it deep within
the earth, a sound gentler than
waves at a beach. Her skin

was brown, darkened
by ancestry, codified by sun.
One morning I woke up

and saw a freshly slaughtered turkey
being prepared for later in the day.
I did not cry for it. We had to eat.

It's flesh was a luxury not every
one in town could afford.
I lost a baby tooth that trip.

My father pulled it from my mouth.
It fell among the rocks at our feet.
He looked and looked

but was never able to find it.
My gums nursed a fresh space
in ancient air.