Let us pretend, beloved, that this is the skin you wore yesterday. Allow me to lick the salt from your lips and I’ll ignore the black dog who at night, stalks my fire escape and feasts upon the lull of a sleepless—sleep. The dog who drags me back from the cliffs of a steady breath and bites salt from my lips.
I want to take this dog. I want to see her —your her— knot her fingers in its shabby fur, and flail beneath its jaw. So I can see the inside of her body— all thinness—a red delicacy. I want to see which vein you loved, so I can know for sure that you have been there: the muscle —a tendon— the tightening of how you were inside her.
But I feel the bloom of your iris steal into the pound of my chest, so I forgive how these hands —broken hands— never tore through my hair.
My pupils just fill with bowed heads and pleading wrists while the dog gnaws at the break of my ankles.
And in this little moan of bloodied floor and sodden wood, the kiss of your mouth grazes my neck’s snap— your fingers trickle up my thigh
into a little pool of Never Enough.
You had tried to warn me about the time the power line snapped while all the birds were asleep—