She begins with the shelf life
of chocolate. How Madagascar can taste
of vanilla. She tells
him her favorite feeling
is of leaning
into narrow things: a hallway in
pitch
dark. The aster's long leaf. She
begins
by explaining the wearing
peering
that is to be done over a nest
when something is
perfectly stolen.
She begins with the candles melted, a
walk
to the creek. He knows
something
of the way she braids her hair. She
plucks
her knuckles out and
hands them over,
begs her new heart to say I until
it falls away
as just another word. A silk chemise
lies over her feet. She begins by
telling her husband
the okra is overcooked, the sky drops bones
just small
ones, so bring an umbrella.
And then one night she'll
ask
from under a hem, don't please pull
me out of my clothes.
