Monday, 30 April 2018

A poem by Sarah Law

We’re a man down, said the dentist

lowering herself carefully into my mouth:
you have some rough phrasing here, also
a couple of sighs stuck in the back molars.
I don’t mean to cause any pain, but the other day
I almost lost my daughters in Sports Direct,
anything pink and they vanish. I’ll polish
& then fill; could you pass a size three.

I practice minor scales on my knuckles, thinking
that at least to be prone is to be flat; when
my heart syncopates I try an Ave. Yesterday
I felt like a bird perched high above a crag
with no reason to doubt & plenty to fly.

Your tongue has some scalloping which fits exactly
to the cut of your jib, do you juggle? drink wine?
I’ll pack the caesurae with snow, it will last
until your next kiss. Is there anything bothering
your soul? Facial exercises do work wonders.
The dentists of past centuries had to be inventive
with anguish and brandy; you do wonder what’s
going on when they keep changing the recipe.

Sarah Law lives in London and is a tutor for the Open University and elsewhere. Her last collection was Ink's Wish (Gatehouse Press) and she has had recent work published in Ink, Sweat & Tears, Stride, Eunoia Review, Psaltery & Lyre, and Allegro. She edits the online journal Amethyst Review.

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