Dental Damage

Her body, sweet like a peach, brushes against mine.

The space between her hips aches like a cavity begging to be filled.

But her mouth, oh, her mouth I want nothing to do with at all.

I found her toothbrush under the sink, wedged between shampoo bottles and spare toilet paper. Caked in ancient plaque, it stared me down and begged for the warm touch of a human.

The roast beef snuggled between her molars turned me into a vegetarian. Her yellow smoke stains birthed a vow: I shall never touch a cigarette again.

Though the film glazing her canines is as thick as my adoration for her hands, her thighs, the sweet warmth in her pants, I cannot muster the courage to venture near that gaping hole in her face, that Crock-pot of a mouth exhaling hot, stewed breath.

I am a mother fretting over dental health.

I am a plover bird picking at her crocodile teeth.

I am a dentist slipping a free toothbrush into a goody bag.

I am a free diver holding my breath while I swim in her saliva.

I am a liar inhaling her sticky words through a gritted grin.

I am a dog presenting a tube of Crest in my mouth like a bone.

But, truthfully, I am a fluoride freak,

               a toothpick thief,

      a pearly peasant,

      an oral obsessive

        a terrified girl with no dental insurance and a sharp pain in her left incisor.