deep south 2013
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dsj poetry
Roof of the mouth
This morning climbing the hills
you tell me about Van Gogh
how he lost a third of his teeth
and to reassure his brother
had a set of wooden dentures made.
You pronounce Van Gogh
as if you were clearing your throat
and in your mouth Theo becomes
Tayo. Meanwhile the hills yellow
of their own accord, wind loosens
the long grass and somewhere
back in Antwerp a dentist holds
wooden teeth to the window
recalls the different shades of white
the loyalty of light and bone.
Frankie McMillan is the author of The Bag Lady's Picnic and other stories and a poetry collection, Dressing for the Cannibals. Recent poetry has appeared in Best NZ poems, Landfall, Turbine, Sport, Jaam, Snorkel, Trout, The Cincinnati Review, Shenandoah. In 2014 she will be the co-recipient Ursula Bethell fellow at Canterbury University.
