The Unpredictable Sex Life of the Tooth Fairy

When out of his dark room 
strides our son, victorious 
 
as a cowboy, opening his mouth 
to reveal a fresh emptiness, thrusting 
 
his fist towards us, in his palm 
an offering, a glistening 
 
star, still red 
on one end from the tussle,
 
I know our plan to have 
sex has disintegrated 
into a trip to Target—
 
such is the unpredictable 
sex life of the Tooth Fairy.
 
Once we were like other Tooth Fairies—
sliding silver dollars under pillows. 
 
When our son developed 
a chocolate fixation we hid
 
netted clusters of gold-
covered chocolate coins 
 
beneath his head. These days 
he has eyes only for Pokémon cards. 
 
My partner and I don't say
Target will destroy our sex,
but when he arrives home 
 
two hours later, weighed down
by three bags of groceries, 
 
Pokémon cards and war-veteran eyes, 
we both know a full recovery 
is not in the cards tonight. 
 
By this time I am so deep 
into Netflix and my resignation, 
 
I barely care. Maybe 
this is the silver-crusted lining
of long-term love in quarantine—
 
sex comes and goes, a light 
switched on and off, a child
 
discovering their power 
over electricity, and we 
 
are able to observe our sex flitting away, 
like a meditator catching and releasing 
 
a thought, because we know 
our barren calendars will stay 
 
this way for the next 365 days or so, 
and parents are practiced at waiting 
 
out insolence, plus sex is lousy 
at hide-and-seek. Noisy and prideful, 
sex always gives itself away.