Cows in the Parking Lot of the Emergency Dentist

The day I waded out of the lake with a stand-up
paddleboard and a split tooth was four days after I knew
I would leave you and eight days before I told you
I knew. The tooth broke clean, a space

through which I could no longer push the letter s
without a whistle, so a word like separation sat
at a distance as you drove me to the emergency dentist,
steering the rental car with a care that was frightened
and pure. I could see you would wait with me an afternoon

or the rest of our lives. I reached across the cup holder
and squeezed your hand. In the parking lot were cows—
enormous fiberglass bovines, bolted to flatbeds
pulled off the road for reprieve—and we laughed the laughter
of two whose marriage is dying but not yet dead, years

of outsize love flossed between us. After the dentist
took photos and fixed nothing, said, Take two acetaminophen
with a cup of coffee, you took us to the drive-through
and ordered me a fish sandwich. Double? you asked,

trying as you’d always tried to give me more
than I thought I wanted, or to give me what I wanted
but in the way you wanted to give. And with that hole
in my mouth I ate it all—calm on the cusp of the hurt
to come, glad to still be yours.