Pull out the tooth

Excalibur from the gum – the wriggle and rattle and

Eventual give since – of course! I am the Chosen One, the Arthur 

Of my own, aching epoch.

I keep this milky relic close to my chest, cradle it

Like the dull throb of a newly pierced ear. Run

My tongue hungrily over the lull in the landscape.


I have always buried the broken things at the bottom of my garden:

Shattered crockery, milk teeth, leaves, mottled with rot.

I dig a hole – and with familiar hands deposit this childhood mulch

Replacing the lifted sod I press down firm on the earth

With my bare feet

In a hundred years’ time this soul-compost will be ready,

To make green again.


I plunge my hands into the soil – in search of fossils. The earth is

Cold and embeds itself under my fingernails – pebbled, in miniscule stratum.

There is no room for blood – 

And there is no True Empty since

The new tooth has already started to come in


We sheathe our dead in stone  and build portals,

Time-capsule our ancestors – so – that the generations

To come can look back and wax

Lyrical about the good-old-days that flit – rare as butterflies.

Chanting the mycelium gospel, that glowing doctrine of rot , that mutual

Dependence is oh-so-necessary to social wellbeing

Those gentle, pulsing, mutualisms


We leave a tumult of freshly turned 

Earth in our wake and send out tendrils of digital hyphae

Glittering blue and thrumming with information.

So, tie a string around the truth – make sure the other end is securely 

Attached to the doorknob and pull


by Otto Goodwin


Editorial III – Space

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The Irish Distrust of Mushrooms