Missing in Action

Flowers held behind my back,
a surprise that you can smell
(even through the reek of
armpits un-deodorized).

The straps of my dress
cling to the two strips of white flesh I’ve got left
on a body bronzed by sun, not spray.

You hobble toward me,
a crutch clutched under each arm
half a leg taken out from under you.

You grin at
my poor excuse for a bouquet.
I frown at
your smile in progress.

“They’re just teeth,” you say.
“They can be replaced.”

And I know, right then,
I will work as many jobs
as it takes to replace them.

Because you—
there is no replacing
you.