Looking into my
father’s dead mouth I get
a good look at
all that expensive
dental work,
the silver fillings,
bridgework,
crowns, implants, etc.
he had installed
over the
years. After
a childhood
of neglect, he
was very
conscientious about
his teeth—even going
so far
as to use
a water pik.
The dead open
mouth which
I arrived in time
to see, given
that I missed the other
bit, put me in
mind of my friend
the cosmetic
prosthodontist. Talk
about expensive! Caps,
veneers, and whatever. And
then the
reconstructive
surgery,
implantology, etc.
As it is I
wonder how my own
crowns, teeth-colored
composite fillings—
to replace the
mercury ones—and so on
will fare in
the grave, or in the crucible
of the crematorium—
in twelve
or fourteen
hundred degree
heat for two
and a half
hours.
I had an
art teacher
my freshmen
year in college
when I—surprise—
was too lazy
technically
to “prevail” as an
art major. I hated
those pencil
contour drawings
but felt
the call of
paint,
the desire to
squeeze it
from the tube, squeegee
it across
the canvas with
a palette
knife. I went in his
studio once
about some
assignment and
there were
horses lying around
on the floor,
full-sized and
exhausted,
cast in white
polyester resin.
But back to the
teeth and my lost
“transitional object,” the
dentist. Perhaps to sell
the product
or for better
persuasiveness
with women in general,
he’s incredibly
well-maintained—
the shiny sports car the
leather jackets
the buzz cut
clipped just five
minutes ago.
The pressed dry-
cleaned trousers
or tight jeans the
collars the
boots—
I could
describe every
outfit I’ve seen
him in, the rolled
edges of the
collar and cuffs
of the yellow
sweater—the skin—
and don’t forget
the teeth—
he is one
big monument
to materiality. And
I want to
lick him all
over.
I do lick my
father all
over, practically, when
he is dead—his
skin is slightly acrid,
tastes of
sawdust. I kiss
him in
the same hollow
of his cheek
over and over, mussing
the scruff on
the back of his
head, pulling
down his sheet.
Take photos of
his hands. Pocket
the Timex, for
which I had gone to
great
trouble to
get a new
strap
because he insisted
on keeping the watch
despite
its cloudy face.
My father was
“Recycling
Incarnate.”
Except for the glittering
dental work, he
expected his whole
body to be
consumed
in its new
life as science
project—he willed it
to the Virginia
Anatomical
Society!
After Oliver Funeral
Home arrived
to pick up “the
body,” and I signed
off as Next
of Kin,
I went to the nursing
home guest room
and slept. Much later
I was
nearly fully
awakened by the
sense that my
molar was loose,
then that my whole
jaw had fallen
off and I could feel
it throbbing,
pulsing on
its own. I lay
in the dark
in the phony Colonial-
décor dark
consumed by
terror over this thing
that could
not be undone.
Naïve freshman,
with little life as an
artist, I was startled
by the horses laid out
on Mr. Kern’s floor. I
couldn’t tell
whether the
sprawled and bloated horses
were dead or just
napping in their stalls, their bellies
full after a night
grazing the lush summer
grass.
- But Then I Turned Into My Evil Twin: Kindness and Ecstasy - May 19, 2021
- Two Poems - May 20, 2020
- Dental Work/Shiny Object - April 25, 2019
