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My plans fall from me like baby teeth,
little holes, replaced with
fat mottled gravestones chipped and wide. I can take
the days
to ground dust like pumice stones, lifting mornings
on the wide white backs
of the tales I’ve been molting, making real, repeating
    my faith:
These things turned slower than my mind's torn
    waltz,
trailing myth, a high-heeled faith in whatever endeavor
leads again to filling my mouth and gently spilling
    out.
I am their mother, and I know some teeth, while tiny,
    are rotten.
You only need
what comes back and through, you bronze a single
    pair of shoes....
When I'm through, I'll have a body as wide
as a wisdom gap, a big knowing grin across all my
    hands
and toes as long and strong as my tongue. I'll curl
    them around
storm drains and tree branches, a big bat-mouth
    hanging upside down
swinging under the dark and laughing in the wind. I
    will eat and eat and eat damnation
out of the bundling dark like stars until the light can
    get through.

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Jamondria Harris is a Poet living in Portland, Oregon. She has been writing poems for 22 years and will continue doing so.