Talking in the Dark

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?


Little dear.
When I pushed you
against the bedroom door
you knocked down Frida’s dress of arrows.
I didn’t say you could do that.

Corinne A. Schneider writes anti-love poems like professionally. She has her MFA in creative writing from Hunter College in New York City. Corinne grew up in Michigan.