Rebecca Lehmann
The Dentist
Chicken-hawk, draw near-like. Your angel, your angle.
Hitting inside. You soaped your hands before the exam, said Open.
The double shaded lamp sat on the desk,
next to woman in blue dress, folding papers.
Crisp, clean lines. Really, you can get up now.
Remember summers in the junkyard?
Always she looked towards winter, her hands, her hairs, iced.
This was the eighth try, the apex. The prick.