{"id":296,"date":"2025-11-06T23:48:10","date_gmt":"2025-11-06T23:48:10","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/?page_id=296"},"modified":"2025-11-06T23:56:55","modified_gmt":"2025-11-06T23:56:55","slug":"birds-dont-have-teeth","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/fiction\/birds-dont-have-teeth\/","title":{"rendered":"Birds Don’t Have Teeth"},"content":{"rendered":"

Tilden Culver<\/span><\/p>\n

Birds should not have teeth. This is a well-known fact, and has ingrained itself so deep inside the human conscience that it hardly needs to be said at all. Unfortunately, repeating that did not make the crow\u2019s smile go away.<\/span><\/p>\n

It had been sitting on our porch for five minutes. Perhaps longer, but I\u2019d only started looking when it squawked. I didn\u2019t think a bird so unimpressive would\u2019ve had room in its beak for so many teeth. Incisors, bicuspids, some molars jammed in the back; they were gleaming white and all there, in better health than most people could say for their own.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMommy!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I pulled the blinds closed and told myself again that birds could not have teeth. \u201cComing, baby.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

My son was upstairs, standing on his stepstool, leaning into the bathroom mirror with his mouth open. I could see the saliva coating his fingers, bubbly, thick and wet from his obsessive toying with a tooth.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s loose!\u201d he said. \u201cSee?\u201d He stretched his jaw wider and turned to me so I could. \u201cIt wiggles when I touch it! See? See?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

A thin line of spit bridged his lips. He was breathing almost like a dog, excited and wide-mouthed in a way that, had he actually been <\/em>a dog, I might\u2019ve embraced with the pity-love of its owner. But his breath still smelled unbrushed, wafting out warm and sour and making my nose recoil with half-instinct, half-intention. I tried hiding it with a smile.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYour first loose tooth\u2014that\u2019s big!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

But he wasn\u2019t going to let me off the hook that easy. He insisted I touch it, pleading with those two clueless eyes of his while he continued to make his gums bleed. They were his father\u2019s eyes, not mine.<\/span><\/p>\n

I barely poked it. That seemed enough to sate him, though, feeling it lean back in its socket like a poorly-grouted brick. His spit on my skin was familiar\u2014almost unwelcomely so\u2014lukewarm and sticky just as it was when he was born, when I would prod his milky lips with my finger until he unlatched. He\u2019d been stubborn, a ferocious drinker, and I could still remember what ran through my head those late nights when he\u2019d cry for more and more and more<\/em>. It wasn\u2019t hate\u2014I wouldn\u2019t want to call it that. But it wasn\u2019t quite love, either. It was something that stung in the liver, like overindulgence, or regret.<\/span><\/p>\n

He beamed and went back to staring in the mirror. \u201cSo when\u2019s the Tooth Fairy gonna bring me money?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

* * *<\/span><\/p>\n

I told my husband about the crow that night. He was reclined on his pillow, chest sweaty and face numbed from sex. \u201cYou\u2019re imagining things,\u201d he said. \u201cBirds don\u2019t have teeth. It\u2019s a biological impossibility. You\u2019re so worried about Dylan\u2019s loose tooth that it\u2019s seeped into your head.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I was sweaty, but not numb. I kept my eyes trained on the oscillating fan in the corner of our room. Its cold couldn\u2019t reach me. \u201cYeah,\u201d I said, \u201cyou\u2019re right. I\u2019m just stressed.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re always stressed. That\u2019s what I\u2019ve been saying: you need to loosen up.\u201d He took a second to look me up and down, eyes lingering on the parts I kept covered by the blanket. \u201cNot too much, though.\u201d He weasel-laughed and I rolled over.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh, don\u2019t be like that,\u201d he said. \u201cYou overreact to everything.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I sighed. \u201cSorry. Don\u2019t know what my problem is.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, I\u2019ve got a good idea,\u201d he said, and I could tell from that air-sucking grin of his exactly what he was getting at.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t start.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s only natural,\u201d he said. \u201cYou\u2019re getting older. We\u2019ve only had one kid. Your biological clock\u2014it\u2019s crying for another, you know. Making you all emotional and shit.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I turned back to face the wall. \u201cIs Dylan not enough of a son for you?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCome on,\u201d he persisted. \u201cIt\u2019s not that. You used to be so happy. When you were pregnant with Dylan, I mean\u2014don\u2019t you want that again? We <\/em>were happy. We weren\u2019t even married then, and yet you acted more like my wife than you do now.\u201d He let the fan\u2019s humming swell up in place of words. I refrained from saying he\u2019d acted more like a husband then, too. \u201cAnd don\u2019t get me started <\/em>on the sex.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIs that what this is about?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo. But it\u2019s certainly a perk.\u201d I could hear him grinning again. \u201cYou used to act like you actually wanted it. Shit, you used to make the first move.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Another sigh and I closed my eyes. \u201cI\u2019m done with this. Goodnight.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCarolyn, come on<\/em>. You seriously don\u2019t want another kid?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cA little girl? A mini-you?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I stayed wordless on my pillow. Even if I hadn\u2019t, even if I\u2019d spoken up and said \u201cno, hell no, never,\u201d he would\u2019ve buried it beneath his own booming insistence that I did. \u201cYou love being a mom,\u201d he said. \u201cRemember when Dylan was born? You two were inseparable. I couldn\u2019t get you alone for a good year.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

My eyelids tightened, turning the shadow of my pupils bright in their dark, pre-sleep void. \u201cGoodnight<\/em>, Phil.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I could hear his face go gnarled. \u201cWhatever.\u201d He was asleep and snoring in minutes.<\/span><\/p>\n

* * *<\/span><\/p>\n

I saw the crow again the next morning.<\/span><\/p>\n

Dylan\u2019s bus was swallowed by the fog. Our street had never been a busy one; cold mornings like this would come and go without noise, no traffic but a mail truck and, once Dylan had turned six, the bus. Today was one of those days Phil left early for work, off to some meeting he never brought up and that I had stopped caring to ask about. I enjoyed the peace of an empty house, empty street\u2014it was like there was no one else in the world but me.<\/span><\/p>\n

Me, and the bird.<\/span><\/p>\n

It was perched atop our street sign, toothy-smile wide. It had been silent until I met its gaze, squawking once\u2014\u201cha!\u201d\u2014like a laugh. I tried briefly to convince myself that its teeth were just a trick of the light. It hadn\u2019t worked yesterday, and it didn\u2019t work now.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBiologically impossible,\u201d I said. \u201cYou can\u2019t exist. It\u2019s biologically impossible.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Its feathers\u2014just how could I do them justice? They looked like they\u2019d be satin to the touch, the way they glistened matte in a day still unstruck by sun. I reached out to touch it (as if I could ever know such bliss), arm drawn up with the magnetism of two lovers embracing for the first time. It seemed to contemplate, with some vein of intelligence, bridging the gap.<\/span><\/p>\n

But a trash truck barrelled by. A groaning, gnashing wall of metal\u2014it sent the crow into flight. A flurry of black and it was gone, reduced to cawing in the treetops.<\/span><\/p>\n

* * *<\/span><\/p>\n

Hot water splashed my upper lip with the taste of soap.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGreat dinner as always, babe,\u201d Phil said. He was leaning in the doorway, watching me clean. \u201cYou know, it amazes me sometimes. I remember when we first met\u2014god, you couldn\u2019t even make toast right. But look how far you\u2019ve come, yeah?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDidn\u2019t have much choice,\u201d I muttered. If he heard me, he didn\u2019t show it\u2014just clamped his hand around my waist. I, myself, didn\u2019t hear him approach, the kitchen sink in my ear as it was. He changed the subject with that beer-drunk bravado of his.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo, did you give it any thought?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAbout what?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou know. About a baby.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I squeezed the sponge tighter than I needed to. Soap seeped out, down my arm onto its rolled-up sleeve. \u201cI already told you no.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThat was last night. You\u2019ve had time to think.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

His hand got even lower before I elbowed it off. \u201cDon\u2019t need to think about it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He huffed. \u201cI don\u2019t understand why you have to be difficult.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I kept scrubbing\u2014a bit hard, admittedly, to the point that my fingers burned. The steam rising from the sink basin offered a veil for me to hide behind. \u201cI saw the crow again this morning.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

His bravado broke. \u201cWhat crow?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I dug the sponge into our cast-iron pan. \u201cThe one with teeth.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh, Jesus.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He would\u2019ve likely said more if Dylan hadn\u2019t slunk in just then. I could feel him staring from the doorway, that place Phil had stood only a minute ago; the one benefit I reaped from maternal instinct was an omniscience as to my son\u2019s whereabouts, that tingling hot static I\u2019d get on my back whenever he was near.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s my boy!\u201d Phil said. I could hear Dylan protest as his father tousled his hair. \u201cYou know, your mom and I\u2019ve been talking. \u2018Bout growing the family. You\u2019d like a little brother or sister running around here, wouldn\u2019t you?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLeave him out of it, Phil,\u201d I said. I had turned the water off, but it still dripped in short bursts from the faucet.<\/span><\/p>\n

He ignored me. He was crouched down in Dylan\u2019s face, smiling like something rabid. That smile fell when Dylan answered: \u201cNo. Not really.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d Phil said. \u201cYou\u2019re joking.\u201d He took a moment to reset his face before trying again. \u201cJust think about it, kid. Of course you wanna be a big brother. It\u2019s a huge milestone.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

But Dylan shook his head with more insistence this time. \u201cNuh-uh. \u2018Cuz then you and Mom will spend all your time with them and not me.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I couldn\u2019t stop myself from laugh-breathing. Phil glared. Then he stuck his fat fingers in Dylan\u2019s mouth.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat the hell are you doing?\u201d I tried pulling him back by his shirt collar.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBack off, woman,\u201d he said. \u201cGive me a second. I just have to get a good hold.\u201d I heard a wet pop and he retreated, bloody fingertips on a tooth. Dylan\u2019s face was screwed up something primitive. He began to sob; the tears from his eyes mixed with his mouth-blood to make an off-pink vomit hue, gurgling and dripping down onto our floor and salting the tiles dark with droplets. He stood as soon as he was able\u2014ran to his room, slammed the door. I could hear him crying through the wall.<\/span><\/p>\n

My husband held my palm out and pressed the tooth into it. \u201cThere,\u201d he said. \u201cAll fixed. You can shut up about that bird now.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I pulled away. But he didn\u2019t let go.<\/span><\/p>\n

He squeezed tighter so that the tooth carved a crescent into my skin, so that my finger bones pinched and threatened to snap.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re hurting me,\u201d I told him.<\/span><\/p>\n

He smiled and said \u201cI know.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He pushed me back against a counter. He used his free hand\u2014the one without the tooth\u2014to make sure I couldn\u2019t yell.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

When he was done with me, he left to go to bed.<\/span><\/p>\n

He had kept the tooth pressed into my palm the whole time, and now it stuck there in a skin-pit of its own carving. The blood had all but dried. Watching it, I was momentarily convinced that the tooth was moving<\/em>, shaking somehow by itself, but I came to realize it was, in fact, my own heartbeat, pumping so loudly it sent rattles through to the fringes of my body. Sickness hit me. I ran to the sink and threw up, all over the pans and plates I hadn\u2019t finished washing.<\/span><\/p>\n

And then the squawking.<\/span><\/p>\n

Through my reflection in the window I saw the bird. Its smile was lit up by the kitchen lights, the night-coat of its feathers making it seem almost like two rows of floating, marble white, disembodied teeth. I forgot about my nausea.<\/span><\/p>\n

It didn\u2019t fly off when I opened the door as most birds would, just sat there probing me with its amber-ringed eyes. I probed back. But the bird was a master of this game; I succumbed rather quickly to blinking and it crowed, as if to remind me of who between us was in charge. And then it spoke. Its voice was nasally, croaking in the same way as its birdcalls, only now with restraint enough to project meaning unmistakably. \u201cTooth,\u201d it said. I didn\u2019t question what I was hearing, whether it was real or not\u2014I felt assured that it was, even though birds could not have teeth.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTooth,\u201d it said again, and dipped a short bow to my fist. I paused, then unclenched it, catching the tooth still nestled in my palm lines with the cold night air. I held it out. The bird stretched its beak forward and picked it up like a seed, biting down with great care not to nip me. I heard it crunch, enamel-on-enamel, and on its black tongue I watched Dylan\u2019s tooth be reduced to a fine white powder. When it had finished, it swallowed, and we were locked again in a duel of eyes.<\/span><\/p>\n

Fireworks in my brain. A warmth, a softness, a rush<\/em>: it hit me then, like I\u2019d taken a shot of heroin to the vein. I didn\u2019t have the time to feel self-conscious; my knees got weak and I hit the deck, but it wasn\u2019t painful\u2014if it was, I couldn\u2019t feel it. I was too focused on how the air rubbed against me like satin. I <\/em>was satin, all over, in my blood and lungs and under my skin. I could visualize it as a neural summer wind, hot gold lace intertwining with my bones and pulsing and filling and warming <\/em>me from the inside out. Bliss. Drugs and sex held nothing to this, the flittering in my chest and the gasping.<\/span><\/p>\n

And then it stopped. I was left with drool on my chin and my shirt stretched out from tugging, hair a mess from the crazed fingers I\u2019d run through it. The bird was still there, watching me.<\/span><\/p>\n

I asked if it could finish.<\/span><\/p>\n

If it could, it didn\u2019t. It didn\u2019t answer, either, not with a squawk or one-word croak. Another minute of me on the ground and it flew off. Gone again, black in the night.<\/span><\/p>\n

* * *<\/span><\/p>\n

My husband didn\u2019t ask why I\u2019d spent the rest of the night on our couch. He woke me to the TV blaring, having turned it on to hockey with the volume as high as it could reasonably go.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMorning,\u201d I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

He grunted back. \u201cIt\u2019s noon.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Hockey retook the den.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou making lunch?\u201d he asked when the other team scored.<\/span><\/p>\n

I listened to his lips smack against a coke can, his throat contract and squeeze as he swallowed. The nausea crept back into my gut. I didn\u2019t answer his question. I asked instead if he\u2019d seen Dylan.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cProbably still in his room. Pouting,\u201d he said. \u201cI bet he\u2019d come downstairs if you made lunch.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Back to hockey.<\/span><\/p>\n

Then I sat up. \u201cBirds do have teeth.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He groaned. \u201cYou can\u2019t possibly still be on this.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI saw it again last night,\u201d I said. \u201cIt pleasured me.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt what?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. \u201cDo you want eggs?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He followed, brows knitted together in a look of concern-turned-contempt. \u201cWhat do you mean, it pleasured you?<\/em>\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I shrugged. \u201cI\u2019m not sure. I\u2019ve never felt that way before.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He looked me up and down. \u201cYou\u2019re crazy, woman.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe,\u201d I said. I let the fridge shutter closed. \u201cBut I can show you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He was skeptical\u2014I could see it in how his face creased downward\u2014but let me lead him outside. He stood where I did last night: an arm\u2019s stretch from the banister, gazing out at the treeline as if it shared his exasperation. \u201cSo what\u2019d you do?\u201d he asked. \u201cBend over and let the bird fuck you?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

There was a line of black watching from an oak tree. I didn\u2019t answer him. Yes, or no, it made no difference; the black was shifting now, nearing, a bird with its wings spread. And then came another, and another. Four ravens total, all shooting at us, all bearing teeth.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHell are those, vultures?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

One came down to its perch. It was my <\/em>crow. Phil didn\u2019t step back, didn\u2019t look at me or give any sign he was cognizant. He just stared straight ahead and said it:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBirds can\u2019t have teeth.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

But the bird did have teeth, and in a mess of black feathers it flew to his mouth like an arrow. He tried furiously to bat it away, though when their scuffle slowed it was clear who was winning; the crow\u2019s feet were clamped down on his collar, holding itself up while it picked between his lips. I heard it chew and crunch, and soon the other three birds had swooped down to join it. My husband fell. His head hit the deck with a thud. The crows stood atop him, feasting, his jaw their new perch. He had stopped grunting.<\/span><\/p>\n

I fell to my knees beside him, but did not wallow. I ran my fingers down my neck, let the heat flooding through me have its way. It was euphoria\u2014a rogue wave I did not want to resurface from. I came to understand, then, the concept of heaven, the ecstasy old scribes must have felt when they dreamed of spinning angel wheels and burning bushes. I climaxed.<\/span><\/p>\n

I laid in elation for some minutes. My mind was slow to come back to me, and when it did it was not entirely the same; there was a numbness there, a strange clarity wedged between me and the rest of my body\u2014calmness, despite the heartbeat in my brain.<\/span><\/p>\n

I stood, and at my feet he was splayed out like a doll newly broken. The crows had flown off and left his mouth a well of blood. His gums were fat and red and shredded at their sockets. They had taken his teeth. I looked back at the treeline and saw, just for a moment, those dark wings weaving through the branches, and in that moment I was with them; gliding on outstretched arms, hollow-boned and lighter than air. Free.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMommy!\u201d Dylan yelled from the kitchen. \u201cI\u2019m hungry!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The moment ended.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cComing, baby.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\nTilden Culver Birds should not have teeth. This is a well-known fact, and has ingrained itself so deep inside the…\n<\/div>\n
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