How is it, Bronwen, that you have come to have
such straight teeth? Is it the apples, Bronwen,
you ate at the age of nine, seeds and all each afternoon
when school’d let out and you’d scamper?
Bronwen, tell me, could it be genetic, or the mouthwash
calibrated by that furious physician, your dear uncle,
whose one true succor, alas, was your smile, Bronwen,
broad as it was but bursting toward the corners
of your apple-chewing cheeks, white as white,
contemplative, an almost-template-almost-temple?
Or are they prayer-straight, Bronwen: from a self-aware
call, after peace and love and patience, after
lead me on the straight path, Lord; and give me straight
teeth, too, oh thank you, giggle? (But, finally, in bed, you’d
sneak a lick at that marginal molar, Wisdom askew, its pain
your goodnight treat. Do you miss it, Bronwen? I do.)
David Wanczyk teaches at Ohio University. His work has been published or is forthcoming in theawl.com, Alimentum, American Literary Review, Defunct, Lake Effect, Mental Floss, New York Quarterly, and Prick of the Spindle. He lives in Athens, Ohio with his wife Megan.
Photo by Delphine Devos
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