by Diane Fahey
Some inner light shines through the cracks
in his teeth: ‘Velcome to Transylvania!’
… at least, that's what she thinks he says —
his accent is rather thick.
A dusty room with a dustier feather bed
is given her at this gingerbread inn.
The woodwork is highly wormed,
The hotelier winks with his seeing eye,
knowing she is the adventurous kind.
At eleven, sure enough, she exits through
large cracks in the shutters, slides
down the hill and up to the castle,
where he is waiting… He serves champagne —
the best — then smiles, his teeth pointed,
with many cracks. She smiles too,
her neck in a brace from that ski fall
in Sun Valley when, even so, she'd finished
and won the race… Her teeth are regular,
like all Americans', and seem to fill
the room. Her opponent's eyes blur
for a moment, then focus. ‘Chess?’ he suggests,
bravely. He knows he's in for
a long and lonely night.
Last updated January 14, 2019