The dentist does not ask why
or how the baby teeth remain
while the adult teeth decay
before snapping his gloves,
placing his fingers into the two-way
mirror of my mouth,
and setting out, row by row,
to resurrect each brown and
broken tooth.
From above me,
he prods and drills
each pseudo-bone
until he reaches the root.
Suddenly visible
is a calcified child, biting down
her father’s bitterness and salt,
wide eyed at her mother’s
bruise-sweetened fruit.
The dentist does not speak;
just buffs and smooths
the rough surfaces into sea glass,
injects each cracked edge with
a history of silver.
After the purging is complete,
he rinses away a past-
laden putrescence.
From the chair
I hear it suck and
swirl down the drain.
I imagine it leaving,
flowing out to the open-armed
expanse of the Pacific ocean
miles and miles away.
All that natural salt,
warm sand underfoot,
and clean air.