A close eye to detail, the dental hygienist
leans over me, hands in my mouth,
attending, probing.  This intimacy
flashes to monkeys grooming, combing
picking out fleas.  What to do with the tongue,
that most instinctive of instruments?
I will it to stay out of the way
but it shames me by nudging around
touching whatever’s near.  Our faces inches
apart, enlarged pores on her nose, black
hair up her nostrils.  I can smell her
cinnamon mouthwash.