Apo comes home with a new hip, a bowl made of copper that we touch through her sweater. We place our candy wrappers there and they come back warm, wrapped again, milk shell and chocolate clot. Mama cooks and cooks all of Apo’s favorites, walls pruning with steam. Meat melting from bone, rice snotted as pudding—this way our teeth won’t loosen. Apo swallows her teeth two, three at a time like the pills she takes, smearing our palms Roy G. Biv when we count them out.