Shredder Haibun

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.

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