Triclosan Sam

Pree – Heaven Is A Drag

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I brush my teeth and spit 10 times. Not three or four. Ten. First the slosh, then the paste, a few more for the spit, the plaque, the teeth. Then your name. And when I see it there, limp and soggy among the paste and slosh and plaque, I feel 26 years lighter, Samuel; I feel new.

They’re placed back on me with the morning’s coffee, the 26. Weak, burnt and steaming. So I paw the railing when I waver. I race up the stairs and stumble over photo albums; yearbooks; Little League trophies; bibs. The ghosts that litter our floor. Until I find the bathroom, grasp the sink, and brush. Scour. Spit until nothing’s left in this mouth but defeated tongue and ridged roof. No plaque to rid, no teeth to scrape. Nothing until I’m wide-mouthed pink-purple, Sam. Eyes, nose, and lips all wide-mouthed pink-purple.

And when we sit for dinner, or when we lie in bed and you curl your back to the mounted picture frames of the children I never named, I’ll no longer have to answer the question “What’s got you so quiet these days?” Just spoon, and silence, and “Goodnight, Pink-Purple.”

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