We’re going to have to control
your tongue,” the dentisr says, pulling out all the metal from my
mouth. Silver bits plop and tinkle into the basin. My mouth is a
motherlode.
I The dentisr is cleaning out my
roots. I get a whiff of the Stench when I gasp. “I can’t cap that
tooth yet, you’re still draining,” he says.
We’re going to have to do
something about your tongue,” I hear the anger rising in his
voice. My tongue keeps pushing out the wads of corton, pushing
back the drills, the long thin needles. “I’ve never seen anything as
strong or as Stubborn,” he says. And I think, how do you tame a
wild tongue, train it to be quiet, how do you bridle and saddle it?
How do you make it lie down?
Who is to say that robbing a people of
its language is less violent than war?”
-Ray Gwyn Smith‘