The Dentist's Son
My stepmother won’t come to my twirlings.
Her eyes can’t handle it.
My dad came once.
A year ago–before I knew what I was doing.
Before he and my stepmother adopted Trudy, the Russian baby they’re reluctant to let me hold.
I smell Trudy when I’m twirling.
Somehow, in the cloud of glowsticks, her milk-breath arrives and I cannot chase it away.
Sometimes I don’t want to.
