THE DENTIST IS NOT THE MONSTER

a poem by Bobbi, who loves dental hygiene almost as much as she loves wearing black sweaters . . . almost

As a child, I did not feel the same fear
I feel today about going
to the dentist.
In youth,
fears were
rabid wolves in my closet
unknown shadows running beside me in the night
bursts of flames behind
my eyelids.

In age, I greet this oral fear
when I wake to the radio’s
news, telling me of the
snow
and the wars.
I sit with fear at breakfast
I blow dry it around my head and spray
something pretty on it before I leave
for work.

My teeth are not beautiful
someone once said my face was
but I’m sure he wasn’t looking too carefully
too closely
at my teeth.
They have the bumps of childhood
the stains of sacred beverages
the stance of a disorganized battalion
unsure of where the battle is or how they can
come together in the end.

And then, it’s time and I drive
through slush and grey sky, married to tall towers
but loving the earth more.
They welcome me:
“Hi Bobbi”
“Just have a seat in the chair in room two, Bobbi.”
A touch here and a touch there while
the chair eases me, though I’m uneasy
into place.

The dentist rolls his chair up to me
his chest is right against my hair and the assistant
is leaning against
my left arm
so close
so close and touching, I feel
even through the three layers of black shirts I climbed
into this morning to stay warm
all over.

They keep asking me if I’m OK.
They keep asking me if I am OK.
And they wipe off
the bit of my
dread
as it leaks out under their tools and rubber dams
I am trying so hard not to come undone
dotting the stray tear as it escapes and makes
a run for it.