Everything is the hopesprung phantom
of something else. I married
that man, the next morning for a moment
not knowing why I was tucked
in his bed. He collects spoons’
shiny reserve, clay pots of lush succulents,
handmade soaps smelling of spiced apples &
wet horsehair. He moves through me
as through a quiet house.
As if he has thought what he will
do when I die.
He says I’m dark fruit.
A wind moving outside myself.
A stone wall with one hole.
Even now, he says he loves me as I
came to him, lopsided breasts he’s
accustomed to, my night murmurings
a murder of charcoal crows. He says I sleep
with my mouth overflowing,
as they enter or exit at will.