Look to the lone moose in a birch forest, ten panes of your window, sleeping twins, one sucking her thumb. Oh mundane day, living room rug, cracked seam of your little toe, empty water glass, parched throat. Focus on details, chipped paint and a triptych of fall trees. The way to forget assault is with red wine and sham smiles. Don’t look to the room’s dark corners where sun never burns, dried blood, scars or evidence of the kitchen floor’s slant, gun you keep in your closet.
Allow me to present blue: whiskers on my body, places of change, never again the salt of same. Pink: healed lines, measured cuts for life, the two hearts, four hands, their immature lungs, acres of tiny, collapsed veins. What to taste when you’re close, death a dark marionette whose strings you would slice: watery bouillon served in small black bowls. My stomach an atlas, each mark a place we’ve been, to the belly button’s left, where you were saved, lines between you fused in hopes you’d one day breathe.