Open-Mouth Surgery
a poem by Asher Barzaga
Remember the
time you first told me to smile?
You followed it
up with all kinds of personal questions.
How often do you
floss? Do you smoke? When was your last check in?
“You are so
bold,” I thought.
In truth it had
been years.
My last
experience wasn’t the best, and the pain wasn’t worth without some kind of
insurance.
Eventually I
regained some much-needed assurance and I was ready to try again.
Well, that and
my newly vulnerable chipped tooth.
So here I am, opening
myself to someone I didn’t truly know about 5 minutes ago.
Your hands were
pale white, but warm, warmer than any other hands that caressed my face.
Your eyes, they
shined, halogens, spotted, not flooded.
You couldn’t
wait to know me.
I was hesitant at
first.
Why did someone
care? Do you really care? Why would you want to fix me?
“It can be
saved,” you said. “The nerves, they’re not completely dead.”
You said that so
nonchalantly.
After a few
seconds of getting to know me I began to feel numb.
I was afraid of
course, I thought about shutting out.
All I could
think about was the past and how I’ve been hurt before.
You just said,
“Let me know if you ever feel pain.”
It was strange.
Your actions,
they pierced me, but they didn’t hurt.
There was a
surreal realization inside.
You saw the worst of the worst and still kept going.
After a couple
of hours we were done.
You kept up with
your honesty.
There might be
some pain later, if that happens just let me know.
You gave me a
reason to smile again.
