Beware the Dentist Who Insists On Lying Through Your Teeth
A Poem by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
She melts
into a giant soaker tub
and I think of butter,
wonder why chickens are made
to eat their own thighs,
valleys carved right out of land
with planned joy;
the pivot comes when the arms
that hold you become infatuation eyes
that follow another,
heat lightning along the flightpath,
it will come sure those many empty promises
you once wanted to believe so bad,
the desperate ramshackle truth of wet bar magic,
dusting all the rainbows for busy housekeeping,
those empty nights they go, they go –
beware the dentist who insists on lying through your teeth,
Di Vinci painted himself in drag
and everyone calls The Mona Lisa
the most beautiful woman ever;
all that paint and you never see those legs
that carry one away with raced hearts,
dreams that smile so hard they hurt
and denial is not a stoic gig, it’s tears for a lesser love;
people who look to groundhogs
for their weather have always confounded me,
that pirate patch of rough is yours to wear
for long as it lasts, but things have a funny way
if you share your road-worn miles with clowns:
if I can laugh,
I always feel better.
Bio of the Poet: Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many mounds of snow. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Himalaya Diary, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review. He enjoys listening to the blues and cruising down the TransCanada in his big blacked out truck.