Why there is still all this space inside me, I don’t know
You did everything right. You strung
the poles, bought the bait and made it
by sunup to fish the bank facing the fork
I still believe the dead don’t miss
people the way the living do
Sometimes passion is a padded room
I told myself
that I was done
comforted us with stagecraft
rabbits and mirrors
the mummified lovers
of Pompeii were found to be two men
I cannot work-a-bone until I’ve showered
this ghost-froth from my membrane.
We walked back to our camp, stumbling on liquor
and deep sand, pushing and holding one another.
Call me wife most pale, since
you and your god will not
Sometimes, to continue the metaphor, you could not remember being beaten up.
The ambition of the sea crests higher
than our will, but we still seek the water.
Show me your favorite teeth, the ones that pave your smile. I’ll wear them around my neck
She cried over her bowl of Carbonara:
no one had ever cooked like that for her.
When the man I love asked me how I found
him I didn’t tell him the truth.