by Aedín Jane (she/her)
Photography by Conor Bailey.
Flat on my back, by latex coated fingers
My mouth is pried apart. I’m set on that night.
Your eyes bared me before the glare of the spotlight.
An assistant arms me with sunglasses. My sybarite tendencies
Ripped wide a cavity. The dentist scolds me. Now he knows about
The too sweet attraction I couldn’t hide. Will my chiropractor know
It felt like a Waltzer ride? You’re silence
When the suction tool stops, the moment I can breathe when there’s no fingers
In my mouth. I understand these things, frat-boy soundtrack,
How to kiss you back, the necessity
Of flossing. Not cuspid or first bicuspid or where those two adult
Teeth went. Don’t want to regret. Morning held a subset
of colours, the discomfort of a new toothbrush. That shade
Of two a.m. doesn’t exist, and when those two teeth are pulled
There’re no replacements. Just rolls of cotton bud and
a panic attack outside the dentist’s office.
Aedín Jane is a twenty-year old Irish poet and writer studying English with Creative Writing in Dublin, Ireland. She likes reading on public transport and people watching for inspiration. She enjoys fiction novels and emotional poetry, and she’s currently refining her poetry and working toward a collection.