With his wisdom teeth yanked
from their bone cradles,
my son comes home woozy,
hands me four teeth in an envelope
as keepsakes. Their roots curl
like tiny fingers. Cherishing this chance
to nurse my youngest child
weeks before he leaves for college,
I fill the stock pot to the brim
just as his friends amble in
unannounced. They bear sympathy
and dinner -- canned tomato soup
and a sourdough loaf too tough
for him to chew. He clutches ice
to his stubbled cheek, tries
not to grin around the bloody gauze
in his empty sockets. As I retreat
upstairs, I hear their masculine laughter,
the clumsy clatter of pots and jibes,
how each kitchen chair complains
mildly as six feet of boy sprawls
onto it. I think of them gathered
at our table -- their separate lives
together -- notice the beginning
of my own dull ache.
Susan Cohen lives in Berkeley, California, where she is a journalist. Her
poems have appeared in Poetry International, Poet Lore, Puerto del Sol, the
Seattle Review, Tar River Poetry, and other journals. In 2005, Unfinished
Monument Press published her chapbook, "Backstroking", which won the
Acorn-Rukeyser Award.
