Jawbreaker

[vc_row][vc_column][title type="subtitle-h6"]Cody Dunn[/title][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column width="11/12"][vc_column_text]I’ve never seen my Dad takea punch, though I know he has.One-­‐half his teeth are porcelain,like fine china or nesting dollsand they gray with age. One day,his hair will match his teethand we will all buy new suits.He says a scar is hard-­‐earned.He distrusts my nose like hedistrusts my mom, craft beeror taxes. It is a bulbous, sparkplug of a nose. It always looksbroken, though it has neverknown a fight. Other kidsused to call me Landshark,and since I get nosebleedsall winter, I’ve known thesmell of blood more thanmost. So, it’s fine. Together,Dad and I can sense winterfrom a month away. It achesin his root beds, settles in amuzzle on my face. It gnawshim to see me like that, chin---glisten and raw, reminds himof the night he cupped shatteredjaw in his hands. “Some world,” hesays, “where I have to chew onthe left for life, and you get thatbridge of blood vessels for free.”[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row]