BPR 47 | 2020
Joy was my father’s false teeth
set in coral-colored acrylic.
When adjusted the right way,
he’d exhale a whistle like a flute
through the space dividing gum and tooth.
In the hospital after shooting
a 16-penny nail through his finger,
he loosened them with his tongue
and lisped, See? I’m okay, baby.
They were double-bagged
among possessions my
mother brought home from identifying his body,
this only bit of him not cremated—
partial plate cloudy with age
like a cataract eye, crusted
with his last meal—cheeseburger,
hot fudge sundae—I popped
it in my mouth. It would not fit.