by Chad Foret
We sit on a bench with no back in the rain.
A wedding party compliments the rabbit
muffalettas. The centerpiece is melting.
They aren’t just down there, the dead.
Because a scar is the color of infatuation,
I climb the kitchen table every morning, demand
to be defaced. When your fingers disappear
into my hair, our hearts become a mutilated horse.
A single, rusted nail is holding
everything together. The weather’s
sideways, the landscape a stereogram.
A boat filled only with robes rocks close.
A naked fingertip extends
to cancel all our bones. I kiss
my life—her ears are cold.
All the birds are out of breath