by Mahailey Oliver
He lost one of his baby teeth
during the golden hour in Lake Champlain
when he was seven.
At least, that’s what his sister told me.
According to her, the family picnic on Memorial Day
went awry when he didn’t wait fifteen minutes
and lost his sandwich along with his tooth.
Their scowling dad plucked him from the water
like a damp calla lily,
packed up the van, and left the lake.
People always saw him there afterwards.
“The scrawny boy? Red hair? Yeah, I’ve seen him,”
they’d claim. They remembered wondering
whose kid that was, and why
he was always playing alone at the shore.
Why he seemed drawn to the water. Why he never looked
to the sky during sunset, but only at the water.
Always, always at the water.
“Did you hear what happened to the Benning boy?”
folks whispered in grocery store aisles.
“Sure did. First thing I said when I saw the alert
is that they oughta dredge that lake, first thing. Sure ‘nough…”
I heard his sister never admires sunsets anymore.
I heard she was there when they plucked his body
from the lake, like yanking a tooth from wet gums.
Even worse is what happened to their dad. I heard
from the waitress at the bay café that he came in for lunch
about a year after they found the body. She was there,
she saw the moment when he cut into his fried bass
and in the belly of the fish
was a baby tooth.
Mahailey Oliver holds an English MA from Stephen F. Austin State University. Her poetry has previously appeared in ForgetMeNot Press, Spark to Flame, and The Afterpast Review. Her body and soul are both made happy with a chilly autumn breeze and camping under starlight. You can read more of her work on her website.
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