Steven Sanchez – Cavities

Steven Sanchez


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
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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