Steven Sanchez
Cavities
My molar’s root stings
like a boutonniere
pinned to skin. I dreamt
I pruned each bulb
with a floss pick,
dug into the red
coronas expanding
around each tooth,
the pain a relief
like when you enter me
after tracing my cavity
with your tongue,
like when you grip
my neck and leave
a tender halo. The last
time we kissed
was months ago
because my beard
is like barbed wire—black
and rust. I let it grow.
I dreamt I kissed a man
through his underbrush,
tongued his foreskin back
and drank his aloe.
He tasted like you. Still
asleep, your mouth hangs
open. In the oil painting
above us, an elephant
gazes out the window
toward the iron gate,
its vacant eye a period
between our faces.
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