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The dentist probes my mouth with an octopus tentacle; his eyes are wound silk. From the cavity in my left molar he pulls: maracas, a warm bottle of milk, a chandelier and matching candelabras, a brown-bagged egg-salad sandwich I’d forgotten about since middle-school. Then there’s the recipe for my grandmother’s angelic angel’s food cake inscribed on the underside of my tongue. This he copies down and hands to his assistant, who rolls up the paper and slides it into an alabaster jar.  It’s only when they walk out of the examination room arm-in-arm that I notice her jackal’s head. Now, I only brush my teeth with a celery stalk, and my feet are wet leaves.