grandma was a poker player

black oak dresser and her mouth,
curving lines and smiles into wood-
grained memories. too tight to touch.

she hangs wind chimes from her teeth,
wolfish glittering metallic daggers,
breathing twinkling notes into existence.

her smile reminds you of an elderly woman
behind the counter in a small town,
all yeast-filled, but she snarks

at you, dog barking bitch,
and you see the black oak
in her clean, white teeth.