Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

Hygienist

The slimy tools unravel themselves
while the spotlight attacks my eyes, and
the hygienist floats down to test
the quality of my flossing technique,
her mask and eyeglasses covering
the map of her face. Her hands descend
into my mouth as her metallic swords leap
and stab, slashing their way through
the jungle to find the bandits I hid
in there somewhere. Misery excites her,
and she opens her traps of fluoride,
grinding and rubbing, grinding and rubbing
into my gums. Then the churning water…
a cascade? But no, this must be water torture.
And the sound? Alpha Centauri expanding.
Meanwhile she complains. Seventy-five degrees
are not good enough for her swollen joints.
She wishes she could be in the valley
of Rio Grande under the hot sun,
I, too, wish she were there.