I never glow, although sometimes, I shiver. But you knew that. Vermont (1997):
my nose bled tiled floors, I was shelled up in the bathtub, my body fled into ice,
or at least it felt that way. We both watched my flesh melt like some bundle
of broken bees. Your eyes pooled like moths, your mouth held open by keys.
You looked just like our fathers that day, only you were so much less a chain of boys.
Today I stretch over the windowsill and bless the sky for that. Sometimes I wish I went to church.