He drilled without novocaine, and I,
a young boy, knew no better.
One time, when I clamped shut my jaw,
my mother proclaimed that she
was so mad she could spit.
At eighteen, having found my own dentist,
I relaxed in the relative ease
of a numbed jaw.
Years after that,
in my dead father’s apartment,
I found the love letters Bigler
had written to my mother.
Tasting her words, he summoned
the last moments he saw her,
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