The first night we met,
we lay under your freshly laundered bed sheets,
and you showed me your
yearbook, named all the strangers
for me by first and last name;
when you met my four-year-old son,
he cut your throat
with an invisible cutlass:
you fell—clutched at your throat,
and let the laugh spill;
for your birthday,
I drew my right ear and framed it;
remember?;
how when we made dinner, our mouths?;
how there could be no seam found
in the flesh of them,
how you said, I know
one day I won’t want to do this constantly,
but I’m not there yet,
how the Brussels Sprouts
you drenched with honey burned,
how we ate them anyway
knowing the inside meat was good?;
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