Stay in the loop and register for email updates about events, competitions and all things poetry.
Stay in the loop and register for email updates about events, competitions and all things poetry.
You’re not real. I blink away
Joan Crawford, Audrey Hepburn,
but Katharine will keep hanging on
to the drill so when the dentist
asks for just a little wider,
is it any wonder I tense? It’s like
this. The words are queuing up
in my mouth, and here comes
Elvis fitting in well with his white
jacket. There’s a thump. I glimpse
the dental technician slump to the floor,
flat on her back, but I’m floating high.
See there. Marilyn is back with Arthur.
A lovely couple. And when did I turn
into my mother? So, on cue, my father
takes on the job, leaning over me, hands
on my chin as he lifts my mouth
to his. One sharp blink. Now the dentist
is telling me how it won’t hurt
and I’m shouting he should keep
his room empty, that I won’t carry on
while his nurse could be dead, what sort
of man is he? Just a small prick, he says,
to put you to sleep. Waking to the blood,
I adjust my skirt and leave the ceiling.
From Chroma No 4 (Spring 2006)