I’m getting a vacation in my mouth!
you quipped on the morning of your oral surgery.

A trip to Aruba in a single tooth.
Driving to your appointment, we passed

mountains gathered like blue muslin fabric
in the distance, and mountains

beyond mountains, where the blue of sky
melts into the blue of earth

the way peanut butter and chocolate
melt in your mouth, which is where

the vacation to Aruba is going, tooth number 30,
a molar in the lower right of your jaw.

In the waiting room I thumbed
through vacation magazines,

filled with the tanned and perfected
people who look great in bathing suits

at any age and gaze into one another’s eyes,
whose iridescent smiles have never shown

a cracked tooth. Instead they dwell
forever in that liquid horizon, and sip

fruity cocktails the color of the Caribbean sunset.
When you came out of surgery, a little wobbly,

you pointed to your gauzy, lop-sided grin.
See? I have a vacation in my mouth.

Then, steadying you, arm-in-arm,
we walked out to the parking lot,

put on our sunglasses, and strolled
barefoot on a beach full of sugar sand.