C4 antho - Chamber Four

The Night Dentist ~261~
warmth that always, somehow, eludes him. He surrounds
himself with half-lies, rusted metal, sheared plastic. Quasirecyclable.
Translucent technology he can trade in at a moment’s
notice. He prefers slippery sentences that leave room
for escape. He sits sifting among the spoils. Eats recycled
chicken from a paper tub.
The night dentist’s tools include, but are not limited to:
reamer, burnisher, merlam pliers (serrated), forceps (standard),
carver, excavator, universal tofflemire.
A man across the aisle talks into a cell phone. Unshaven.
Insistent: i want them in one bag, and they have to not be
moving. you have to figure out a way to pack them so
they’re not moving. Silverfish crawl into cavities. Frigid
fingers flex, bone-white in harsh fluorescence. The smell of
wet cement. Tired cynicism. A woman in the next row faces
forward, says to some hidden camera: flight is the country i
came from. The train presses forward, darkness to darkness.
Through the window, the night dentist sees fruit trees. Wellgreased
bicycles welded weightlessly in flight. In formation.
Alone in a fruit field, he dreams of soft tissue, silverfish,
sound sleep. The night dentist says, “these are the things I
keep in my heart.” The night dentist says, “open wide.” The
night dentist says, “this won’t hurt a bit.”