A molar adventure
You can bury a dead cow in it,
the great bloody crater in my jaw.
The round-headed dentist’s hands
were enormous, they held a mouthful
of shiny tools, my whole head in pawn.
Mouth, where are you?
Gone. Zapped. Buzzy... Bereft.
Lemme thee it, I implored.
Gotta clean it first, he said, washed it
and held it up, reverently.
Bye, bye, good old theven-pluth,
troublemaker. I’m gonna mith you.
No you won’t, he said.
O yeth I will, my mouth hissed,
filling with blood, spilling over.
The rest of the day had that taste,
metallic spicy-sweet, not at all bad.
Next morning I still missed seven-plus.
Mouth full of blood. Poppy-patterns
on my pillow, red blooms on the sheet.
It’s one of the conditions of life:
Sometimes you bleed.
If you have any comments on this poem, Jane Røken
would be pleased to hear them.