My brother reaches over and wraps a pudgy finger

around one of mine. Strings of spittle stretch between

our hands. Wordlessly, my mother hands me a tissue.

I forget to say ‘thank you’ until my father chides.

Behind his back, I stick out my tongue. It slips

through the overbite of my front teeth and jabs

a loose canine tethered by a filament of gum.

I cry out at the sharp sting, the sudden taste of thick,

warm metal. I want to scream and berate my father,

because all my problems are because of him,

because I’m six and prone to tantrums,

because I’m mad at more than just a lost tooth,

because I can feel the raw pulp in the crater left behind,

because I can’t find that stupid tooth. Will the tooth fairy still visit

me tonight? Can I post ‘Missing’ Posters around the neighborhood

like the Johnson’s did for their shrill Chihuahua that no one

missed but them? If I wail loud enough, will my father give me a dollar

just to shut me up?