far

Poetry

Oregon

Bill Garvey
issue seven

---

After my father died I drove across country
past corn fields and rivers, through tiny
towns where fathers taught their sons
anatomy with the innards of deer.

One night in Wyoming he tugged
the rear wheels of my old Torino,
testing the leaf springs. He returned
in Oregon, flopped down next to me

on a beach and spoke about his time
in Korea, sweating on tarmacs.
A mechanic with a new set of dentures
courtesy of the U.S. Marines.

He said they pulled his teeth like
crooked nails from his gums and
fitted him these. He grinned. I laughed.
So he did it again, then popped them out,

clattering in the palm of his hand.
I laughed so hard I didn’t see
the young couple strolling the beach,
blue jeans rolled up.

My father hurried his teeth back
into his mouth, while I tried not to snort.
Sandpipers replaced the couple. We stayed
until all of the footsteps dissolved.