Sometime last year, before 2020 and all of its decay, I finished this poem about my time working in a dental office. It seems apropos now, during the time of the year I always feel sad, in a year that has been sadder than most, and specifically in a month that marks the first anniversary of my grandma's death. I doubt that any of us feel okay right now, but I keep hoping that we will get there.
Dental Office Assistant
Symptoms of decay manifest
as caries, chipped incisors, sharpened molars,
cracked canines crowned with metal and porcelain,
foul exhalations, strong musk perfume,
crows-feet around the eyes
avoiding a bright light aimed at the mouth.
Manifest as bills paid late
or never or only because of collection agency
calls. As dusty acrylic teeth waiting in drawers.
As hobbled steps hesitating
at my desk counter. As warbled chit-chat
delaying a slow drive to an empty home.
As me, pulling paper patient charts
from filing cabinets, penciling
“deceased,” and stacking in the back lab
atop the microwave until Dr. Allison
organizes them among the boxes labeled A-Z.
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