I could suppress a wail past the pinch-point, but the doves will still fall come morning

This sun could paralyze the best of us

It’s no surprise, I can’t pull my thighs from the vinyl

That hasn’t changed, yet

I commit the sins nightly without objection

And

There’s a yearning in the cuffing

We don’t hold hands anymore, but I don’t pray anymore, either, so who could blame you

I’ve never been one for self-soothing, and age makes a fool of those who play pretend

Yesterday I registered for a class in knot making, but I only want to tie my grief down

I never bind myself to anything useful

Summer of ‘95 my cousin tried to lose a toe to a rubber band, and I’m only realizing now that not everything can be a poem, but her nail turned inky and her knuckle bone-bleached, and the only sheers that worked were the ones for needlepoint, the flash and sting releasing the captive

I still glint golden-eyed when stitching closed the wounds in the lace

I could tell you here how I didn’t wear white

How I wore beach winds rubbing me raw

Or wet cheeks like a flood

I could say the house would have a rose-honeyed door

How the shingles still need repair

Remind you how to shut the window against the discomfort

How the roof will need to be replaced this year, if we want silence in storms

Instead, I ask to whisper the scream’s end

Ask to draw the noise in the dust

There’s a way to keep this private

You still know how to become the weight

I might decide to kneel, might pray for you to kick the chair

Darling, I bought a rope today