Before They Fixed It

Looking for a takeout menu—

the kitchen drawer, the one

with the dead batteries

and the rubber bands.

A photo in a stack of papers.

Second grade. Gap-toothed,

smiling like it was nothing.

I sat down at the table.

Kept running my tongue

across the front of my teeth—

the smooth closed line

where the gap was until I was twelve.

I don't remember what it felt like.

I remember the braces.

The tightening appointments.

The wax in the small plastic case.

The wire that came loose once in a theater.

But not the gap itself.

Not what air felt like through it,

or what it was to be that kid

with a space in his face

smiling for the camera

like that was just how things were.

I put the photo back.

Found the menu.

Ordered the usual.