lYes. I crossed the planks of his porch, over piles
of un-read books on the floor. Yes. The windowsill.
That’s where I rested. Took the book
back to bed, where he wanted it written.
I don’t remember what did it. Maybe the way I said
You hate me, don’t you? He didn’t say yes. Instead,
he made a necklace of teeth. And there we were,
drawing ourselves on the sea. If waves became metal,
we came close to ocean.
Was it a scarf?
A small piece of rope?
I hardly recall how he knotted my hands.
I only remember the wall, full of windows.
A stranger pressing his face to the glass.
It didn’t happen. Then afterwards, happened.
The piano groaned when we climbed inside.
I know some women like it that way.
They kick at the belly. Suck on the bit.
There's a lake where mud makes birds on the shore.
Not real birds, just weeds. But these
days we pretend. In the end I picked clean
the mulberry tree. With a basket of berries
the color of bruises, I sat down beside him.
Ate what I picked.