all of my teeth are 64 years old
but tooth #19, a lowly molar,
is acting up... on account of there's
a dark hole beneath one of its roots
big enough for even a musician to make out
on a smoky xray that never fails to animate a dental type.
and this one--an endodontist-- is lively about something
where nerves and bone and tissue carry out their tiny lives in #19.
i give in. just do it. and then everything fades to buzzy.
i don't remember. it was the extra gas. i guess.
he keeps talking through the haze, explaining
what each new sound is about, as if it will reduce the anxiety?
enhance the experience?
there's a jaw expander holding my mouth open,
and a sexy little blue spandex skirt stretched around #19.
later, in the afterglow, a new picture pops up on the screen.
so many little white lines where the sleek hair-thin canal tool
the modern millie in me appreciates the irony:
lighter by $740 and yet in more pain.
the pioneer woman in me, with
native intelligence still intact,
thinks snake bite and oblivion
could have been a reasonable alternative.