Sundays with A

By Georgia M. Brodsky

He said he could name the fourteen bones
in my face, so I dared him, and he delivered,
touching the skin where each lived.

When I write us like that, we’re a movie
shot in close-up. Under the covers
in the late afternoon: Dimples! Eyelashes!

Light! White teeth! I can’t help the white teeth.
He is a dentist, now, after all. But see,
there it is. Not a movie anymore —

just a girl and a boy, and dental school,
and the anatomy notecards she’s helping him
study from, and the long slants of sun

that mean it’s time for her to start the drive back
to New Jersey, and the traffic on 1–84, and
the huge swaths of roadway between them.