Ellie Davies, Smoke and Mirrors Heathland 3, 2013 (Artist Website)
C-Type lightjet print on Fuji crystal archive paper

The dentist is tired of mouths; the mower, 
tired of grass. In the same way, I turn page 
after page, looking for some new thrill. 

The habit is consoling; each sheet of this book 
is secured to the spine. In the reclining chair, 
the expert says I won’t lose the tooth. 

Of course, there are exceptions to every rule. 
Things split into most and least desirable: 
the weeds or the wacker, Novocaine or the drill. 

Despite all precautions, the needle nicks 
a nerve. Numbness a kind of monotony. 
Will I feel anything ever again? Answer: maybe not. 

I said it before and I’ll say it forever: 
the tree has bark for a reason. Nothing ever 
does it easy. Blink twice if you’re fine. 

It’s hard to cry out with a mouth full of hands. 
Do no harm, the bulldozer yells, 
then razes your home to the ground.

Jennifer Moore