By Daniel Galvin -
He’s neat and slim,
a handshake like an empty glove.
I am a good patient, grinning
through the shock
when his utensils pick too deep.
I can even be our nurse.
I let the suction tube he clips
around my lip
wither my tongue to Langue de Chat
before I fish it out.
An x-ray glows above his shoulder,
my skull a cave,
each tooth a stalactite
cramped amongst its neighbours,
crooked and lobotomised,
bits taken out.
The image renders blobs
of amalgam, dolloped
where enamel has been gnawed away,
in sugar white
while black chars mark the rot
that eats
and eats
and eats toward the final
tender darkness of the nerve.
Daniel Galvin is from Co.Cork. His writing has been published in The Moth, Acumen, Honest Ulsterman, A New Ulster, The West Texas Literary Review, Cork Words Anthology, Rock and Sling and Ofi Press Mexico. He came first place in the Spoken Word Platform at Cuirt International Literary Festival 2017 and was shortlisted for the Red Line Poetry Competition, 2018.