By fourteen, I had lost
all patience with her
careful makeup, the fact
that she ate cattle, and swine,
and poultry, and said,
when asked, that she would 
gladly kill anyone
who tried to hurt me.
She shaved her legs
and had not read
The Diaries of Anaïs Nin,
or Johnny Got His Gun, 
or “The Ballad of the Lonely
Masturbator,” failings
I ticked off silently
in the car beside her
those afternoons she drove me
to the orthodontist
she could not afford
so he could close the gaps
in my mouth, coax
my eye teeth from their
Count Dracula positions,
and give me, finally, the smile 
that would oil the hinges
on so many of the world’s doors.

She cleaned up after
construction workers to pay
for it, paint thinner 
stripping her skin raw 
when she used it to clean spatters 
from the windows.
For two years, my mouth
ate up what might have gone
for her to have new shoes
or her own dentist.
When her tooth abscessed,
she waited it out,
swollen and hunched
in our kitchen, 
a woman pummeled
by her love.