Like every mamma, she had her own remedies,

like baking soda

on a canker sore. It doesn’t sound easy,

but it worked; besides, her own

mother (my grandmother, died before

I was born) tried this on her,

"And see? I survived." (Shrug).

 

Still, I wouldn’t do it by myself.

She had to bend before me

at the bathroom sink, tug

at my lip to expose the ulcer,

milk white and irritated by a curious

tongue running over its crater.

 

"Hold still."

it's better to plunge into the drama,

to twist and grind a coated finger into

the open wound before my consent.

The sting wouldn’t make a noise;

if it did, it would have sizzled,

hissed like meat frying on a skillet,

or the poppop...pop of grease landing on

dodging fingers.

 

And it was over, the pain left

to fade as I slept away anger on the jaw.

 

My mamma

and baking soda

taught me the first life lesson:

sometimes, it must get worse, than better.

By the time I had reached my twenties

I had heard this saying so many times,

in so many ways,

that it began to sound too hopeful

for a self-styled cynic. So maybe

that's why it's only true when I hear

it in her voice on days it's time

 

to resort to her remedy