I asked you for all twenty
of them hoping they'd
provide some
cold comfort,
little ivory pebbles with
unfilled cavities
and brown blood crusting
at their papery roots
but when I found a soft
spot in my molar sitting
on the sink's edge in front
of the bathroom mirror
I crammed the Ziplock bag
in a cardboard box
locked in my dresser drawer
and prodded my
tooth with shaky fingers
drilling for the spongy rot,
anticipating the metallic scream
of dental tools,
remembering my mother
rushing away from
magazine pages and
the receptionist's desk,
her pale face bathed in
fluorescent light after
I slapped
my dentist with
eight-year-old fingers.