Friday, November 13, 2009

A Little Tooth

Your baby grows a tooth, then two,
and four, and five, then she wants some meat
directly from the bone. It's all

over: she'll learn some words, she'll fall
in love with cretins, dolts, a sweet
talker on his way to jail. And you,

your wife, get old, flyblown, and rue
nothing. You did, you loved, your feet
are sore. It's dusk. Your daughter's tall.

Thomas Lux, from New and Selected Poems, 1975-1995
Houghton Mifflin, 1997

 



My friend Phoebe sent this to me and I just love it.
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