Inspection by Trista Hurley-Waxali

He comes in to discuss my mouth,
panning through my X-rays as Pandora’s new age music
echoes to ease the tension.

He knows I can’t run
from my genetic adaptation,
pointing out scars
of grounded down enamel.

He starts questioning my cleaning habits,
I’m confessional at best.

I tell him that my routine is just that, my muscles
reacting to my body’s need for sleep.
Scrubbing off the red wine
to be a clean slate to onlookers.

“Okay, smile” he demands, with an index aiming for my gums.
Latex gliding and probing, “everything looks good
from here.”
I nod, a little unsure what else to do.

But it’s the lack of flossing that ties me down from being in the clear.
I promise him I’ll do better,
I lie
and he knows it.
He smiles back and leaves me holding out
for a white-labelled toothbrush.