Baby Teeth

They fell into a ditch
I felt them tumble

I slid down on the slick soil
down moving sides

I ended up hands buried
in Zambia

(I smell you sometimes when it rains)

In the fold of the ditch
was a dried up sluice 

brush dusted, camouflaged,
thrive in anonymity

My lips were coated with remember
my foot caught under

such a sharp and cold thing 
double pointed 

such a milky thing
now biting from both ends