by Laura Serwe
My father walked childhood
carrying his teeth
in a bag.
When lucky, he’d role em
like dice and shake em
at girls. On
only the very best
occasions he’d push
em back in
their sockets. He would say
a full set was high
falutin
like he were wearing gold
cufflinks. A man don’t
keep teeth in
and smile. A man gums his
steak; builds callouses
on his jaw.
Laura Serwe has been published in Sundog Lit, Sheepshead Review, Mad Hat Lit, and is forthcoming in The Canopy Review. She works part-time at the Public Defender and as an adjunct instructor. She and her husband live in Columbia, MO with their imaginary dog, Professor Pugglesworth
The Crossing 