This poem is taken from Stand 219, 16(3) August - September 2018.

Knute Skinner Three Poems

He drilled without novocaine, and I,
a young boy, knew no better.

One time, when I clamped shut my jaw,
my mother proclaimed that she
was so mad she could spit.

At eighteen, having found my own dentist,
I relaxed in the relative ease
of a numbed jaw.

Years after that,
in my dead father’s apartment,
I found the love letters Bigler
had written to my mother.

Her Letter

Tasting her words, he summoned
the last moments he saw her,
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