The Opiate, Summer Vol. 6
Toothpicks Leanne Grabel My mother detested my father’s toothpick habit. How he probed and poked. Histrionically. High up in his mouth. Distorting his face. Like a cobra. Gulping a rabbit. Spitting pieces of gristle. Right on the tablecloth. Vile. That’s what my mother said. Then. Served us disgust. In the bowls of stewed tomatoes. From the San Joaquin Valley. That he grew. Those tomatoes. That shiny-faced Jew from the Bronx. Starving for cowboy. And farmer. For spaces and stallions. For fanfare and yachts. For oysters and sweetbreads and Cadillacs. Manicures. Big-bellied. Had it. For a second. Then. Lost it. Then. Got it for a second. Then. Lost it. Too mad. Too mean. Too unlucky. He could only hold on to the cars. Always older. A little gaudy. Gold ‘62 Coupe de Ville. Lavender ‘59 Eldorado. Then. My father. Dead a decade. Then. My mother loved her toothpicks. Took a toothpick every meal. Worked it big. Picked big. Like the rest of us. More things seem to stick to my teeth. She’d say. We’d nod. And pick. We’d pick high. In search of brisket gristle. Celery strings. Our lips stretched out. Like broken umbrellas.
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