This little boy with the taped glasses,
the dreamy kid nobody would put in charge
of details-he is the one I must slip inside
to look up into the toothless, angry face
of my mother whose voice does not come
all the way out of her mouth. Have I forgotten
my lunchbox at school? Is this the day
I lost my paper-route list? What I know
is that standing above me in her red bathrobe
and waving her switch, she is about to ask
if I will ever do it again until I cannot
say no. What I know, tasting salt afterward
in my bed, is that she never got
the brand-new teeth. Did I only dream
she kissed me, father gone, under the lamplight
and told me of the lovely white smile
that would change her life, my life—
or did it happen? Now I am looking up
to find her at the sewing machine again
with only sharp pins between her lips
and in her hands the bright needle moving oh
so quick and deep. Now all her work of shirtsleeves
and pantcuffs is cleared away, and I am singing.
Before me, in the lamplight, a shut-faced man
sits listening above dark lapels. There at his side,
my happy mother, wearing lipstick, cannot stop
smiling at me with somebody else’s mouth.
Trying to Find Her Teeth
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