One morning, when I was small,

I planted my tooth in the garden.

The crystal canine had fallen

into my scrambled eggs, sinking

into yellow embryo as slow

wisps of red traced my lips. I prodded

the hole with my tongue and,

for the first time, felt

my pulse. The flesh tasted

like when I’d swallowed a penny

last fall, when Abraham Lincoln

loitered in the lining of my stomach.

Later, as I noticed his profile

in the toilet bowl, a sparkle of copper

amongst the mess, I wished to know

what he had seen. What color was

my stomach, really? My esophagus? My lungs?

It wasn’t fair, I’d thought,

that this coined man could enter me

through the throat

and see the parts of myself that I never could.

In a panic, I took my tooth into the garden.

There, amongst the damp soil, sprouted

the tomatoes we’d planted

in July, riddled with tunnels

for potato moths. I dug a hole

beside the feeble stock, savoring

the dirt as it seeped under

my nails, and plopped the little tooth

into the ground. I imagined

the bountiful reaps of my harvest,

carnivorous vines of molars and wisdom

sprawling over the garden bed

like limbs. I imagined filling my mouth

with the crop, lost flesh fertilizing

the Earth beneath my feet until

every gap was no longer

gaping, until there was no chance

of Abraham Lincoln sneaking in

through the places I’d left

empty.