LIKE KNIVES

The doctor snarls
Well, what do you want me
     to do about it?
I stand there /appalled
immobile /hating him
     My teeth grate like knives
braying over a dry whetstone.
My feet burn, the floor rots
Not a word can I strike to
     ignite my sodden indignation.
I part my lips enough to slice--
     Everything. 

February 1969