I can only see the moon
from this one angle.
You put your mouth
close to my ankle. I wonder
if the neighbors, windows open
across the driveway, heard me coming.
Did you notice I washed my sheets?
I know a bird in your left ribcage.
It deepens your neck-pulse as you sleep.
I was hoping you’d see me
in my blue underwear. Tell me
what do you call
that sycamore leaf we tracked in,
the one that quakes on the floor?
When I pushed you
against the bedroom door
you knocked down Frida’s dress of arrows.
I didn’t say you could do that.