One question of childhood: why
do some people have gold teeth?

I could spot them from a distance.
A sun shines. In each of their mouths
a different sun.

But I never said:
the woman with the gold tooth came,
the man with the gold tooth went.
Though I could have,
my voice was strong.

I used to feel they were the bearers of something beautiful.
Something their hands did not hold, unlike a sack.
Unlike a necklace.
And not on their heads like a keffiyeh,
not in their pockets like a handkerchief
or candied almonds,
not those things which, to me,
a girl besieged by poverty,
signaled satiety and wealth.

The notion that a gleaming stone sat
in someone’s mouth made me happy.
My sister Jamilah and my Uncle
Abdul-Rahman possessed such stones.

I used to wait for others to talk or laugh,
for their lips to part,
I used to search for gold in oral caves.

And my hands were always ready
to grab a gold tooth if an awesome force
snatched it from its owner’s jaws.

I used to count stars, worms,
vegetable boxes, trucks heading east across
the river Jordan.
I used to count water springs
and people’s teeth.