Painless Dentistry: A Psalm

I broke a tooth

So I have come to the dentist.

I mime a scream while two people in masks and raincoats drill inside my mouth.

I keep my body as still as possible, knowing one jolt could send a sharp metal object whizzing into my exposed and vulnerable gums.

My entire body is clenched

Knuckles white and

Toes curled against the threat.

I try to keep my jaw as wide open as possible

And not flinch.

I am the boss of my body.

My tongue does not seem to understand this

My tongue

Does whatever the heck it wants -

It does the grand tour

While the hygienist tries to shepherd it away from the work site.

They ask me questions 

I try to answer with grunts and gestures

"Ahh," they nod knowingly, 

But I am fairly confident they have no idea what I'm saying.

I, too, am unsure of what I'm saying.

The drill rumbles, my head rumbles,

Until I am 8 years old

Lying in the carpeted back of a station wagon

Driving down a dirt road.

I almost fall asleep

(I am almost certainly allergic to novocaine).

The smell 

In the cubic foot of air we share

Is foul.

Is it their breath or mine?

I am deeply curious 

And regret that it would be rude to ask.

(It is mine. I know this.)

"You're doing great," 

The hygienist encourages.

Which is an unusual thing for one adult to say to another: why, I wonder.

The dentist has trapped my lip against my teeth with the side of his hand.

This relationship is complicated. 

I will tremble and feel giddy for the rest of the day

(I am almost certainly allergic to novocaine)

Before bed I will open my mouth wide and look in the mirror

My new filling will gleam white

Next to the silver fillings of my youth.

"You're doing great," I will snicker

And go to bed and sleep

And grind my teeth.