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.

Jane Røken

If you have any comments on this poem, Jane Røken  would be pleased to hear them.