by George Dickerson
Leaning in, his drill a weapon in his hand,
Hachem sortied into the molar's core.
I could read the braille of sweat
On his oily face, acned like downtown
Souks pocked with bullet scars.
"Your mouth's corrupt," Hachem said.
I thought of Martyr's Square
And the bomb-blasted stumps
Of the center's rotten teeth.
"Root out the cause," Hachem said.
His hairy finger probed
Like the snout of a foraging pig
Or the blunt nose of a Kalashnikov.
"The nerve must die," he grinned,
Imagining himself the perfect
Executioner, imagining himself
On barricades, firing away,
Committing murder in the name
Of hygiene, without anesthetic,
Smirking while the city screamed.
"I hate the killing," Hachem said,
"It's such a waste of dental work,"
Digging deeper still, as if to excavate
The ruined Roman stones beneath
The crumbled, bankers' vaults,
The war-wrought jaws of East Beirut,
As if in my poor slobbering mouth,
He could wipe out recent history,
Eradicate the offending caries
Of civilization gone awry.
I thought of flesh falling away,
Of teeth like gravestones
Marking the cemetery of the skull--
All laughter gone--incised
With Hachem's demonic skill.
He was a man of sensibility:
Leaving in my sinus a pool
Of formaldehyde to combat
The germs that might yet try to live--
Embalming sentinel of his domain.
I protested the coming hurt;
He cursed and shouted, "Screw your pain!
What matters is my artistry."
Oral butcher of West Beirut,
How many of the mounting dead
Smile the rictus of your dexterity?
- Share this Poem:
