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.