My Dentist Loves Jesus
My dentist loves Jesus.
(I am not being facetious;
he loves Jesus. This I know.)
If I close my eyes
and open my mouth wide,
I can make my mind move
away from my mouth;
not far away. Just inside the
inner lining of my head:
my dentist works swiftly.
Jesus’ body, gold,
radiant, is painted on the
inner walls of my brain.
Gold paint fills the cells
in the left lining of my head; glittery,
high-sinking gold now painted
into the right inner skull tissues;
heavy gray matter is dull in
color, by contrast, as if nothing
matters but the harsh drilling sound
as old tooth chips off, flies out. Gritty chunk,
metal and bone fragments,
My dentist sweats as he works,
upper lip beaded now.
Focusing, face five inches from my own
he strives to perfect the dig, the unearthing;
the hole; the filling of the hole.
Mouth edges tremble.
Inside the head are the silver brains;
centimeters away are the painters—
winged painters of the
golden sun-paint seeping into head-cells,
as if my head is a beautiful
beehive, filled with honeycomb,
dripping in light.
I have fallen asleep.
Anything to avoid pain.
Strong-armed angels prop open the
hands fly across my chest; whishwhir
of the vacuum tube, stuck loudly in the
hung on the driest of lips.
Still I remain quiet.
Before my cranial murals are fully yellow,
the visit is over.
He wipes his brow.
I love my dentist.
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