A mattress can be a kind of desert. / Mine, a drought— / 40 days without softness.

Much to consider. / Foam in /
the hot, deep bath kisses my bitten nails.

I will not die, I promise you this. Even if the bruise /
turns blue and creates a pretty palace on my skin, on the other side /
of that flesh wall I am becoming my own best man.

But, /
somewhere: dawn and the hum of hollowing /
seeds planted in dry weather, like a sigh /
or shout or song for when the sky /
breaks open and gives out /
something kinder than light.

I heard you cursing me, / telling me you loved me, in the same breath. / Know they noted my last words— / Don’t tell the kids.

I have never been able to afford a dress that did not smell like death. /
Even the moths lust for cashmere instead of polyester.