Dental Care
Across the bottom of the
front top teeth, feel
for uneven levels and
chipped corners from opening beer
bottles. Run a pinkie over
the sharpest edge,
daring the enamel to foul
fingerprints. Bleach
them later back to
fish-belly white. Spend a stack
of hours in the library,
slipping past shelves with books
numerous and similar as
grains of rice. One title rings a bell,
another rings a symphony.
See tomes, ripped from the
archives and dusted with
dust. Faces, spines,
bones of the spine. Always
needing more
and more. Outside,
consider the lungs of trees
while pausing on an
exhale. Not yet having caught
sufficient breath makes
speech impossible. Words are only wing-ed
when they issue from the
speaker. Buy a new heart
out of a vending machine
as a low-bawling locomotive
whistle pierces a hole in
the day. Mistake the train exhaust for mother’s
grey Sunday housecoat.
Child-eater that she is. Act calm as cookies
and milk but with a
generous and potent sense
of imminent peril. Carry a
dirty tote-bag against the chest
like a heart
defibrillator. Too young to know
what hasn’t yet been
experienced. In the sun, walloped by
radiation, nuking the
molecules of dermal
layers. Horny but not
eager to do anything about it.
Astral project to the
seashore to ward away
the grey-soul day. The
savoury ocean’s salted broth laps
at an upper lip. Consider
the fish. Differing mouths
gaping for similar yawns,
filling with pause. Filling
with teeth, nicked,
splintered and pointed.
Symphony for the Self-Centered
backasswards sounds about me always
what does your playstyle say about you
maybe that you rode here on a bicycle
made of vintage trombone parts
you remind me of buttered bread with the whipped butter
melted in
mmm
hush you say
listen to the song
to a tune that feels like longing
in a key that pierces vision
the music plays from across the club
but the lyrics don’t come
and the bass is under our seats
it hurts to hear something so lovely
without knowing if you can keep it
I knew you were a badass you say
you sat in the back of every music class
and never said anything
I like guys like you
you make your own rules
you know your Self
it’s a little rough but that’s part of it
yeah I say
I reflect on my own musical ineptitude
I’m unable to play any instrument
but somehow still produce music fit for the stage
daunted
and considering that my talent might be thin
almost invisible
I play on
still hoping that my genius will be discovered
it’s the saddest thing ever
because my world is dominated by self-obsession I have
little to say
to others
and what I do say
rings hollow
above all I’m absent
so leave me alone
thinking my little selfish thoughts and kicking myself
in the shins for even bothering
to come to band practice.
Foster Gareau is a queer French-Canadian poet, sentimentalist, former member of the unhoused and alcoholic in recovery with a degree in Cinema Studies. In 2025 his work has appeared or is forthcoming in PRISM international, Frozen Sea, carte blanche, Yolk Literary, & Change, Soliloquies Anthology and others, and he was shortlisted for the 2025 Vallum Chapbook Award.
