Poetry: Melinda Wilson

Belief in One

All of my wisdom
teeth were impacted,
buried deep in my gums.
The process of retrieving
the foul teeth would be, said
the dentist, a difficult task. For
reasons bred in me I believed that
he could do it, as I believed in my father’s
ability to catch a baseball thrown at 55 mph
from just 40 feet away. He’d catch it no matter
how it dropped or curved. It could not fool him.
It could not break him. I believed in the skill of this dentist,
his unswerving suturing. I was allegiant; I breathed the gas
and committed myself to that something like sleep. In that siesta
—because what can it be called when one sees polka dotted elephants
on ceilings and green geese smacking their lips—in that quiescence, I
came across an egg. I questioned it as one would a criminal. It admitted
nothing, though I knew it had something to do with my slowly awakening
fingers, the tingling in my toes and breasts, all the farthest centers from
the center.