Forster 70

Imogen Forster


First the crown came off,
painless but surprising,
a dimpled thing lying
suddenly in my hand.
It has left a rough pit,
unmeasurable by my
probing tongue.

Later, as I am eating,
a new sliver breaks off
and I spit it out. A sharp
edge catches my tongue
and cheek, my mouth’s
settled geology disturbed.

Looking at this new flake
I see that under the surface
on one side it is crimson,
like a shed baby-tooth
or the dumb barb
drawn from a fish’s jaw.

How long must
the tooth have
lain there, invisibly
staining under its gold lid,
while my mouth has been
bleeding words?

Imogen Forster recently completed the MA in Writing Poetry at Newcastle University. She hopes to publish her first pamphlet or full collection within the coming year. She lives in Edinburgh.