Two Poems
Jenn Scheck-Kahn


My neighbor says if I need help with the snow blower, he's the one to ask. His was brand new last year and already he's changed the belt three times. He changed it on his own each time he heard it make a noise.
The lady with the hat says her cakes are the best in town. Her shop is closing anyway because people here don't have their priorities straight.
The history teacher is the oldest teacher in our high school. He points to his textbook to tell the kids that our town has a lot of history. The next town over, he says, has none. Check the index.
We don't have professional mourners, but the woman at the church will do. If you cry, she'll cry louder. She makes your cry small, almost like no cry at all.
I live in a community of experts, but I'm no expert. I just know what I see.

Her Way

My wife says she's not anxious about the dentist. She doesn't make boxing gloves of her hands when the drill is aimed at her face the way I do. She tells me this the night before her root canal, both of us lying on our pillows, her and me and a tuft of hair that's already loosened from her scalp.