my mother asks about you at dinner.
neighborhood august is smoked slow, she says, sweet, as if we’ve always mistaken fingers
for barbecue & held damp noses to grilled palms.
in paper blinds are shutters: white poster-board against mesh grass. how I know
every grain of this field. how we have packed aged moths in lip balm containers.
to spiral silk through these charred fingers.
I do not know where my arm ends and yours begins. ceramic eggs we’ve fractured, shaped under glossy feathers. a birdbath made of a split spine. a flower consumed
through a skeletal gaze.
I play you in fragments like a broken vinyl or maybe a cassette we buried in
once. I only remember you in bones and stems. how you bled out on
in melon undertones. how I held you for safekeeping. how we tendered in the