By Michael Fallon
A Wednesday morning walk-in
to the dentist on the Avenue
reveals not much new,
no cavities, no gum disease,
and I am breathing easy.
Except there's shadow of an abscess
beneath right molar number thirty
where there should only be pink tissue,
and the dentist is not enamored
of black marks where only pink should be.
The mark is just a halo
around the root of the molar,
the result of a cut-rate root canal
from sixteen years earlier.
The dentist suggests a specialist,
but as I feel no discomfort
I half-consider ignoring him,
but then I feel uneasy--
I can’t seem to shake the feeling
that I am slowly dwindling,
and that the mark beneath my molar
is sign of something deeper,
a disease that would someday kill me
unless I take this more seriously.
The recommended endodontist
shrugs after seeing the xrays,
points at my black spot
and describes how my body is eating
a part of itself away.
He says since my tooth was ruined
back in the early nineties,
my body's cells have copied and recopied,
eight times over,
even while the black mark
stained my mouth and soul.
Yet once such a thing has begun,
there’s not much you can do,
and retreating the tooth is probably
a waste of time and money.
Inevitably I’ll lose the tooth,
perhaps a year from now,
perhaps three,
and with the tooth will go
the black mark that is staining me.
It will be replaced by a sterile modern implant,
made of porcelain and plastic.
The new tooth will have no character,
no luster and no feeling,
but at least my soul will
at last be spot-free.
