You don’t dress your mouth
in my blouse. My body crinkled
like a denim dress pinned
to a clothesline. I’d be lying if I said
there’s no wind here, no sun shaping
me ’til I’m filled by a body or falling
from a hanger. There’s nothing tragic
except what you know of light.
What you might show of sadness.
You want to be folded: for two long sleeves
to meet kissing-like. To be finished
with me in this particular way.
You want to be caught like birthday cake
scooped from the linoleum floor
and spilled like a bank of pennies
or silt. This is the part where you
have to say it because
I’m a coward—though I’d kill
the daddy longlegs and let you
sleep on my pillow for hours, my hair
in your mouth, could my voice soothe
all I can’t say.