A Language of Broken Teeth by Steve Klepetar

They agree to speak in a language of broken
teeth. He hands her a plate made of gold,
she buttons her blouse. Two minutes later
she walks by juggling three fist-size colored
balls, red, yellow, green. She lets them drop
and bounce, widens her jaw and swallows
each as it arcs back to her mouth. Palms up,
she spreads her hands. Ta –da! His pants

are unzipped as he paints a fresco on the side
of a tumbledown barn, horses in a pasture
made of cloud. They are white and black
and brown, fat contented beasts unconcerned
with flowers or feathers or fish which form
a wildly glowing arc above their quiet heads.