When the dentist’s drill
harrows the soft
mess of gum, it is
to dig for bone—
fractured trident,
three bits of shrapnel
from a forgotten war.
You’d think it easy
to stick an instrument
into the open mouth
and fish out the offending
objects: except the smallest
of the body’s particles
is still part of the whole,
and hurt is the invisible
sinew suturing all
together. It takes an hour
alternating through
extractor tips and sizes,
the needle thrice
replenished with numbing
medicine. It takes
cajoling, talking
to the three dead bones
that hold, as if
in stubborn, final
standoff. When at last
they give, it’s not
surrender: they
want it known
they’ve called
no truce. They
want it known
their substance
is old as dragon seeds
sown in soil to birth
rows of soldiers ready
to go to war.