Issue 14: February 2007

Matthew Caley| Tim Cumming | Valeria Melchioretto | Kathryn Simmonds | Mark Waldron | Tamar Yoseloff

TAMAR YOSELOFF

The Dentist

He runs his thumb slowly over the peaks
of lower molars, cupping my chin in his palm,
over that stubborn incisor that refused
to be straightened. He rubs the sharp canine

and I bite down, involuntarily, trapping the ball
of his finger in a cage of teeth. Open he says,
and I do, wider, until he can probe the delicate cave
of my throat, pink and ridged, the glistening uvula,

a bell clap silenced, the soft carpet of tongue
and palate. He pulls my lips apart, his face
so close, I can see a line of stubble along his chin,
the fine pores, his perfect startling teeth.

He is trying not to breathe, and I am trying
not to swallow, as my saliva rises around his
finger, a foreign body. He inserts his mirror
to examine my every crevice, my tongue catches

the taste of metal, like blood, the cold touch
of the instrument, and he wants me to open even
wider, until I feel my jaw unhook like a snake
ready to swallow its prey. It seems to last forever;

my jaw begins to ache with the labour
of opening, and staying open, my juices dried
like a river bed consumed in the heat
of the interrogating sun. You can close now,

he says, as he moves the beam from my face.
I blink and find he's planted himself behind
my eyes, so when I shut them, he remains.
Your teeth are beautiful, he says. Now rinse.

 

Polaroid

Far too bright, the Technicolor
version of my life, I shake it and
appear as if by magic, that happy child.

If I say blue, what do I mean?
An indigo sea, a lapis sky,
a mood too deep to fathom.

If I say keepsake, will you produce
a shock of hair held in a locket,
a blossom flattened in a book?

The brilliant moment drained to grey.
Faces rise from murky water,
undefined, the names have seeped away.

 

Siesta

The rain arrives, decides to stay. It spills
over the terraced hills, drenches the rooster
into silence, floods the roofless villa,
slicks the skins of the persimmon. It hazes
the distant peaks, rides the rapids of the pool,
drives us to our rooms. We chase the cat
from the chaise longue and curl up into sleep.
Daylight drains to evening, an ancient dark,
we wade through airless halls with shuttered windows,
the distant boom of thunder. It will end soon
the weathermen say; we know it will last forever—
we find ourselves submerged in a mire
of speechless hours, when even the clock
can't be bothered to chime.

Tamar Yoseloff's third collection, Fetch, is due from Salt in April 2007, as well as a collaborative book with the artist Linda Karshan to be published by Pratt Editions. She is the Programme Co-ordinator and a tutor for The Poetry School. She is currently working on her first novel.