Dentist Poem

I suffer from karma of the mouth.

 

My tongue is a dried snail

in a strange cave of machinery

and metal

which clinks on my teeth.

A fine powder of ground bone and cold water

spray up from the tools

and the smell is like the end of the world;

my bones cast up in dust drifting through the afternoon sunlight

 

One hour in the chair:

penance for years of

floss-less bedtime, for

the unwillingness of toes

to touch the January floor

for the ten steps to the bathroom;

 

Failure to clean the bony crevices,

flush out the last of dinner,

brush away the accumulation of the day.

 

In penance, I lay with a drill

shaking my skull,

a stranger's hands in my mouth

which is wide

open to the failings

of my character.