My Father Forgets His Teeth
By Paula Ratvasky Hilton
Email: PRHILTON at comcast dot net
(above email address formatted to reduce spam)
January 29, 2008
They pop up in unusual places—
on top of his dinner plate,
next to the mashed potatoes.
"It's easier to gum the food."
Between sofa cushions.
"They fell out while I was
sleeping."
Underneath the elm tree, by the trunk.
"I just took them out to relax."
He didn't even wear them
for our family picture.
"Just couldn't find them that day."
When the proofs came back, I learned
my father has two poses: his smile
a cavernous hole, his serious look
a cave collapsing in on itself.
My mother cried when she saw
the samples.
"We didn't buy any."
Dad remembers where his real teeth are.
When they started to fall out,
one by one, he put them in a green juice glass on top of his night stand.
They're still there, tobacco stained yellow. Maybe he thinks one day
he'll tip his head and that cup back
and his old teeth, his real teeth,
will fall back in—and take root.
About the author:
I'm a short story writer and poet living in Elkton, Maryland. This poem is from a collection I'm currently completing called "Daughters' Tales."
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