He smiles like the worn teeth of a rusted gate

He smiles like the worn teeth of a rusted gate,

never quite open, always a scrape.

Words trip and catch—awkward, sharp,

like a loose tooth I can’t stop feeling.

His jokes fall heavy, clumsy bricks

stacked uneven on the floor of family dinners.

I nod past the stained tie and twitching jaw,

his presence a low itch beneath my skin

I never learned to scratch clean.

In rooms too loud, I fold into corners,

waiting for his voice to lose track

and me to disappear.