by Miriam Connors

Look at those golden jaws they’ll get stuck in the machine the dentist remains alone. And his room’s as white as wool faces flutter the butterflies on the moor, that dentists fail to put on the shopping list – brings back the sheep hiding in supermarket trolleys, hooves slipping through metal mesh that keeps birds in tight bouquets. It’s not your birthday yet, there’s no reason to buy you flowers to sit in the window and look at all the sheep small as fingernails small as your eye in the field.
You must be the shepherd, there’s no one else to wrap blankets of grass around the hills