I Still Have Mothers Who Are Bears
I don’t think to apply for dental insurance
until three weeks before my root canal.
It sounds dumb but I’m so used to not having,
and paying out of pocket.
It starts to snow but I drive to FedEx
anyway to scan ten pages
because Now it’s an emergency.
Now it’s my father frantically yelling
I’m stupid for not applying sooner,
and now The sky is falling
in flakes and the road is turning
into shroud-white sheets.
I make an altar to honor my well ancestors—
wipe away dust from a corner
in the kitchen, wonder if—like with everything—
I’m doing it wrong because a father
can take possession of a body
and mind like a necrotic tooth.
Consciousness teachers tell you No one
is coming to save you but I light
a candle anyway.
The endodontist’s last name
is my Burmese mother’s maiden
name, and he tells me my Persian name
is the same as his sister’s.
He numbs me before he drills—
before he uses bleach to wash out the roots.
That night there is not even a hint of a bruise.
That night my belly is full of wild
blackberries from a familiar field
that we walk through on all fours,
the thick amber of Thank yous in my mouth—
daisy-petal She loves me, She loves me, She loves me—
surround sound inside me.
That night I remember how it is to sleep
like a swaddled baby—
a cub among bears—
my body no longer someone else’s sacrifice.
Shagufta Mulla is the art editor of Peatsmoke Journal and a veterinarian-turned-content writer/editor. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Wild Roof Journal, Okay Donkey, Stoneboat Literary Journal, Crab Creek Review, Blood Orange Review, the speculative poetry anthology NOMBONO by Sundress Publications, and elsewhere. Shagufta lives in Oregon, but you can find her on Instagram @s.mulla.dvm.