Crosscut teeth destroy what we feed it of paper. Or plastic cards that have expired. That kind of mouth never changes its shape: a straight line, unsmiling, open only for what it knows of practical things. There are people in my family who smile like that. The photographer in the studio might have poked his head out of the velvet tent in order to prod—chin up, look slightly right, curl up the corners of your mouth. I never liked to show my teeth, shingles overlapping in a very small cave. But the picture shows one bright peal after another— laughter can disarm.