You learn first what leaks from you. That your lines are long enough. What slept in you, over warm weeks: a damp light, and vomit. You cleave to a body, a new body cleaves to you. You cleave from that body, cleave to yourself.
Eyes like freshwater on the moon. I managed to draw you out of service. The snow flew in.
Cry, where the lovers leeched, where his cells did close. That which, starless, stares back at you: betray it.
Manifold days that I stole your pleated dress, your beated heart. And I love being found, the plainsong of your voice. Do you remember the thrill when our roots crossed? How it would kill us?1A poem after the untitled lithograph by Frida Kahlo.