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

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.