When the bones settle
these metals we are made of
finally loosen
I long to untie
the velvet bag
of river stones
residing in her back
piling piling
Her voice the first time
my cotton undies crusted
with a red foreign ache
she scooped sherbet-
colored melon into a bowl
Now eat.
“Write me a nice poem,” she says
“something nice and understood.”
What’s left?
The daffodils on my coffee table
muscular stems, belled snouts
the reason you gave me to spring:
Persephone has returned.
Issue