hung over her. And every rain
she weathered the pain. A
bobblehead, nodding yes,
a saggy mess, hung as

a wet, wrinkled dress on
the wire. The pigeons drop
their bombs on her. She ***** as
a loose shutter outside his

window in the breeze. He hid
the sun under his pillow, catching
the rays from the skylight
in his bedroom. Shining as a flashlight

inside her womb.  The two married
in June. She, the outsider pressed
as cider from the apples
in his eyes.  She cries in amber because

he shakes her as a tambourine.