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 ...