Root Canal

By Katherine Pisarro-Grant

War was declared on the upper-left molar
After a long silence. The filling had clearly heard
Good things about chilled revenge, having only hinted
At battle in the previous months, with a sharp jab
Here and there, easily ignored, while secretly
Preparing armies for the big day, settling into the
Decay and growing ever closer to its unattainable
Target, the glowing nerve, until last weekend when
They finally got to third base. Meanwhile I watched
Myself fret and sob and moan as though watching
A telenovela starring an other me, one raised
Not to hide her histrionics. The other me stewed
In fecund misery and cursed her hydrocodone
Infantry for their lackluster tactics. A third party
Would have to interfere. And so the final theater
Was unveiled in an Oakland dentist’s office,
The new allies ready in hygienic pink livery.
They soothed that me with surprisingly pleasant jazz
And unsurprisingly euphoric nitrous (distancing me
Even further from the martyred me), and then
It was all over, the battle was won no contest,
The attackers scattered back to whatever crevice
In a jaw whence they came, and the two me’s
Were reunited in a fuzzy embrace that left them
Both less surely-footed in good health’s certain pace.

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