I could feel my wisdom tooth coming in
while you kissed me on a Tempe rooftop,
          the way it crawled through my gum
          like a fly stuck in molasses.

The morning we road-tripped to Sedona,
I realized your tendency for misdirection— 
         a flurry of towers trapped us in Phoenix,
         and we begged to be released to the road again.

My tooth screamed until I slept.
My tongue found the sore over and over.
As we appeared in the village of mystics,
         I took to the pain 
         like a punk to a kickdrum.

There is one road out of town.
We left with little crystals 
colored like amber
because the ponytailed shop owner 
said they’d protect us.

I still wonder what he thought
we needed safety from— 
         dentists with vendettas,
         the auras he never offered to read,
         rogue pebbles flying at the windshield.