COTTONWOOD by Christian Wallace
My father’s teeth are my teeth,
freckled brown and yellow.
I first noticed this watching
my father cut down the cottonwood.
When he swung the axe
his mouth would open as he
thrust a goateed jaw
forward to reveal his curled tongue --
thick purple vein pressed
against the backside of those
terrible teeth. The jutted jaw
his trademark look
whenever his hands were at some task.
And they always were.
Underneath the last shade that tree would offer,
I saw the stains and hated them.
//ww
freckled brown and yellow.
I first noticed this watching
my father cut down the cottonwood.
When he swung the axe
his mouth would open as he
thrust a goateed jaw
forward to reveal his curled tongue --
thick purple vein pressed
against the backside of those
terrible teeth. The jutted jaw
his trademark look
whenever his hands were at some task.
And they always were.
Underneath the last shade that tree would offer,
I saw the stains and hated them.
//ww