NEMATODA

It never occurred to me that we hadn’t found a more sophisticated 
way to pull a tooth. That we still sit, jaw agape, at the cheapest 
city clinic, since enamel’s not covered by policy, waive our right 
to numb it and ask reception to run the total one more time, now 
with one less item on the spreadsheet, let the dentist in with 
yanking pliers, and silently cry with open mouths.
Somehow I’ve never had a cavity. 
When I was a kid I had a breakdown because I realized 
I would not know everything anytime soon.  
The things I know I still forget; that my grandpa is dead,
as I reshelve the book I planned to buy him at a library sale,
that I cannot trust self-evaluations after 10 PM,
that my mom needs prompting to tell the whole truth,
and that heartworms are true worms.

I’m scared that each day I stay alive I give the wrong idea, 
like they’d say about a flirt that got followed off the VIA bus,
or girls who smile. That I’m going to continue. 
That each day I plant feet on linoleum, mow down 
my nailbed gardens, and rearrange my lymph, 
I’m teasing votes of confidence for a position I withdrew from.
There are more deserving people who can do far more 
with the care that I receive instead of them. 
When elephants suffer, they wander off, alone, 
as to not bring the herd down with them.
A much older boyfriend told me this each time I cried.
But last summer I found a bee who could no longer fly,
and I gave him the gallery tour of a venue that’s since closed.
I perched him on my finger and showed him local sculpture
and tucked him in a tupperware with all his favorite wildflowers.
And when he finally gave out, it was not a waste at all.