in winter we rubbed off our skin with bitter yellow soap
& danced across the murky floor of our brains.
ankle-deep in ambien, our toes scraped urchins & palms of anemone.

we built shelters in the living room
from moss-green blankets & coffee tables,
our fingers making furtive wishes in the quivering dark.
we picked small hairs & pennies out of the carpet.

when i grew hungry you offered me your left thigh
like an unwrapped christmas present.
under the aquatic quake of the fluorescent light
you fat seemed to boil
& your bed turned into a small, cold island.

we opened checking accounts under fake names
& you started to worry about your gently doming stomach.
when the mailman came, we cowered in the closet.

each year the temperature of our livers
rose a few degrees.

spring brought us flowers that smelled like DDT.

––Appears in the Spring 2013 issue of The Columbia Review.