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.