It is not unlike a beach hammock
this vinyl and chrome articulated
head rest, back rest, bum rest
leg rest, arm rest swoop on which I lounge.
I open wide, surrender: her gloved
fingers approach, bearing the sharp,
shaped needle pick she will wield
to scale and clean my teeth.
The spatter beads my lenses:
I see as a housefly: cannot focus
on her eyes above that surgical mask;
she hovers, multiplied, before me.
Water sprays, the suction’s
white noise dissects me.
Her softness nudges my arm
her fingers probe my mouth.
Her fierce tenderness
holds me: I cannot leave
I think her name is Calypso.
We meet again in six months.
