Vol 12, Num 24 :: 2013.12.27 — 2014.01.09
Time again for the X-rays, says the dentist,
and so hold still and bite down on these bite-wings,
on which he successively captures for later
development the mortuarial outlines
of my teeth when clenched.
Fortunately, he says, this is the easiest kind,
needing no PAs or periapichals,
no pan-orals, which he reveals to be the worst
of them all. Just these four simple bite-wings,
like firm little stitches on the mouth.
I lie here so at peace, so icily still
as he extends the arm of the camera,
shaped like a dormitory desk-lamp, till
its tube (much like the bottom of an orange-juice
glass) touches my jaw and puffs radiation.
This may be a warm-up, a glimpse of more
serious stuff to come. For my protection,
he’s outfitted me with a brown thyroid collar
and inert, weighed-down leaden blanket
I wear like an overcoat of alabaster.
He gets the data he needs from my body,
and then the scheduled cleaning can commence.
Lying there, motionless, I know at that moment
how it makes you feel, to be considered
one of the more minor of prophets.
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