in a warm March that was waiting for me to tremble--
i wore a come hither dress that covered my face
and i felt impaled fear between my hipbones while a dark
side of the moon covered my ears, enough
that nothing outside of me
could ever hear the screams.

and nights later, the mirror would not look at me
because you had not yet held my hand.

death was behind me
breaking the glass on purpose, reminding me
of what beauty sharp things can bring-- -
that pieces clattering are made for gathering-- --
and your arms made of peace bind much tighter than rope..

i was needing the dream of,
the feel of, you, believing
your hands could feel through the void and into
me-- - could smell the turpentine that splashed from my eyes,
removing subtle war pain.t of domination, transfixation--

i was praying you would taste the earthy pleasure
that wounded my upturned palms;
but a collar became a choking hazard along the horizon of me,
and even so, you stood in for the mirror,
so that i could see myself again,
so that in you, i could break

and you held my being wrapped in a piece of you
that got shoved into a drawer somewhere between forgiveness and forgetting,
and you. ..

we...

both of us tried to forget the man who needed more
than pieces or hands or reasons why or not--
that enfolded in the scapes of us were thousands of only you.. .
thou sands of only you..
thousands of only. .