I stay inside with you, windows closed. I stay inside knowing 

there’s an arena with your name spelled in devil’s rope.

Inside, we remark on very little. Each sentence out

your throat requires too much polish. Context. Even

with me, you asterisk every other statement. We tape your

proper meaning to the refrigerator in long, languid 

scrolls. Hide your souvenir magnets, little traces. You take 

to trimming your own hair: first luscious, autumnal 

locks shoulders up. Next, odd strands on your knuckles. 

Navel, thighs. Finally, you take out a brow, two, let me smooth you.

Blank slate freed of last season’s cells. The news comes from your lawyer: 

the timing’s right to lift the blinds, splay you out in plain view. 

I am hesitant but play my role. Who else? Who else could stand 

next to our deep basin sink and prepare the thick, pink meat ...