[exploration of space while brushing teeth]

You brushed your teeth with the lights off,
saying the contrast made your smile whiter.
Once you leaned over the sink and I,
so deft at your geography,
mapped the pitch and chase of your spine
with my fingertips.
I found your three scars,
chicken pox, age four,
a thin delta constellation clustered
in the night sky of your skin.
Five-point stars in red Sharpie
gave my hands a new path to follow
while you put away your toothbrush,
turned to face me, your eyes
sliding over the supernova between us.