Learning the Drill

Adults always tried to peer into our heads,
tinker with what went on in there,
control our tongues. Only one of them ever could.

We had to see Him regularly. For our own good.

We went unwillingly, quivering in the car,
to a house that was more than a house
in a neighborhood nicer than ours.

The side entrance was guarded by a woman in white.

Surrounded by faded Highlights and expired Time,
we waited in despair, dreading our turn in that oversized chair.

The lobby stunk of formaldehyde and the tiny flecks of bone
that He scraped off people’s skulls.

First some stranger’s kid went in, then a trembling sibling.

They’d come out pale, shoulders tense, faces strangely drooping.

Most were silent as they emerged, which was less distressing
than the gas and gabble of those who spoke.

Mother made odd promises: milkshakes to the docile.

At home, we were too big for these childish bribes,
but here in His harsh light – eyes pressed shut, fingers twitching –
we clutched stuffed talismen no longer needed in the dark.

For parents desperate to decipher the content of crania,
X-rays were not enough.

He pried open our jaws and slid in a mirror,
then played a tune on the edge of our molars.

The shrill music of metal against mandible
echoed insanely from within our ears.

We cried out, but it did no good.

We cried out. It was for our own good.

And it was. They were right, of course.

We chew, true, to this day. We even learned to floss.

And, while He never did extract the truth,
no priest at confession ever came so close to our secrets.