Just Say Aah
“What do you do?” she asks.
“I’m a dentist,” he says
and she purses her lips
and opens them (to speak)
but it doesn’t matter:
he dives into her mouth anyway
through the gates of teeth
and presses his metal scalpel against her
tongue with the gentleness of a cold
cock while carelessly humming
a bad Wagner lick
and she convinces herself
she must really need surgery,
having no insurance and all
of a trauma free incident–
an expensive choice
in the post freedom from, freedom to
wisdom teeth era.
“What do you do?” he asks
and she bites down (hard),
letting her career untether and float
like a hot air balloon into the ether
that is putting her to sleep because,
she thinks, it still feels like 1950,
and her apron strings are untied
and what better way to say unemployed
influencer than housewife,
as the desire to kiss the motherfucker
on the mouth (with a punch)
bubbles up from her belly
like a sadist about to boil
and comes barfing out
onto the cock’s
operating table
and all over his reputation
for being a nice guy.
“Shall we order a bottle
of wine, then?” he asks.