Grinning in the Dirt

Teeth are stubborn mules,
jagged pillars of a life
long gone. The body surrenders
to the earth’s weight—
skin withdraws, bones crumble—
but teeth endure,
grinning beneath the grass,
a last laugh at a joke no one remembers.

They are living proof
of dust bitten,
words spoken.
The body slips away like a guest leaving early,
but teeth linger, the last to leave the party,
unmoved, clinging to the final toast,
as if they grasp the secret of permanence.

Centuries later, they are unearthed—
brushed and pried from the soil.
Who were you? they’ll wonder,
fingers tracing the ridges,
reading the cracks like braille.
Your voice is silenced,
your name erased,
but your smile remained.