Keep me on your purple tongue. / I will not be swallowed like an afterthought snack.

My mother’s fuzzy silhouette rises, / Tells me to go back to sleep.

So you said I love you / into the seventh glass of dry wine, / as the hurricane declared your street / a river.

There is body in the coat closet in the hall by the front door, body under the bed in plastic bins, a pile in the garage by the recycling bin.

Another brown body
hits the dust, / and our cries
dance,

May you always see a wince of fear in your youngest son's face when you knot his tie.