First Time Brushing Teeth Next to You
When I say first time, that implies
there will be a second, a fourth, a ninety-ninth.
From far away our teeth must look like Tic Tacs,
Chiclets, moons of a faraway planet. Nocturnal
animals can smell better at night because scent
lingers when the air is still, and so I smell the mint
of our mouths but also the spill of peppers
from the salsa dropped on your shirt. The greasy
sidewalks we walked an hour earlier. Hotel soap
freshly bubbled and wet in the dish. When I root through
the thicket or the brush pile, my fur turns electric striped
and tail-tumbled. I foam at the mouth. The mask
on my face means bandit. Turns out I love the dark.
My little paws want to grab everything and wash it.
Copyright © 2024 by Aimee Nezhukumatathil. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 6, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.