I'm afraid.

It's been so long, since I've seen him.
Will he be angry with me?
Will I be scolded, for being
less than bold,
for time's yellowing face?
I want to run and hide,
I'm scared of the pain,
inflicted when we meet,
and I have been lax.
I become tense, and
my muscles become rigid,
remembering past pain,
sharply inflicted.

First-visit memory from my childhood,
the plunge of cold steel,
the unbelieving shock,
the numbness, then, oh god,
I remember so clearly...
the grasping and twisting,
the wrenching pain, the blood,
not once but twice, side by side,
sent walking home with the gag
in my mouth...crying.

The long years of fright and denial,
never calling to visit,
until I aged and decayed.
Saddened by my loss of self-esteem,
still I cringe, I procrastinate,
only calling him when fresh discomfort
overwhelms, or duty guides my hand,
I have kids now.

It's been a year, I finally picked up the phone
and reluctantly set up a meeting,
thanking god it would be a week away.

But I woke today knowing the fleeing was over.
I will feel ashamed of myself, when we meet.
I can see the disapproval as he shakes his head
after examining me and finding
the same conditions as our last
horrifying encounter, when I was stabbed
twelve times, flayed and scraped,
sores developed, pain throbbed and
I couldn't speak for days.

I will go to my fate
hoping it won't be too bad
and, as I am tilted back, pushing away
from sharpened tools and
masked face looming,
bright light in my eyes,
the shrill sound of screeching
filling my ears,

my dentist fixes my teeth.

Erin Moen
8/8/02
Copyright 2003 ©