DENTITION

By Rebecca O'Hagan

When I have you under the light,

your eyes reaching up into it,

it’s like having god

serve himself to me on a table.

I like the irregularity of your bottom row,

the sharp imperfect intelligence

I can read into it, form an impression.

Your lip, gluey, sticking to my glove,

that took me to such places –

let me give you metal, and clove,

a mother’s tenderness, the

tickle of a wire brush.

Perhaps you imagine all of this

an act of worship on my part;

that I covet a bitten finger,

bruised nitrile, my own shocked gasp.

It would make sense.

Oh, slack jaw of perfect trust,

mouth filling, then lovingly sucked dry,

hedgerow of root and pulp

bright upon the wall:

if you were ever lost, you know,

this work of mine would be

the only way to know you.

#darkpoetsclub