grinding

Poetry - by Ken Cathers

the last werewolf on the North Island

visits the dentist

I’ve been grinding

my teeth again

the dentist can tell

I deny it

but he knows

the signs.

even the incisors are

worn smooth, cracked

can’t fight the urge

to bite down

tear at the exposed throat

of sleep.

he thinks there are

treatments available

a diet to recommend

does not understand

there are no

miracle cures

each night

I am the dog

that hunts you down

a hunger

that tears to the bone

that grinds and grinds

he babbles on

about mouth guards

retainers.

is immaculate.

clueless.

I feel my jaw clench

my teeth serrated

perfect

“open wide” he tells me

and I do. I do.