And this is how we danced: our mothers’
white dresses spilling from our feet, late August

turning our hands dark red. And this is how we loved:
a fifth of vodka and an afternoon in the attic, your fingers

sweeping through my hair—my hair a wildfire.
We covered our ears and your father’s tantrum turned

to heartbeats. When our lips touched the day closed
into a coffin. In the museum of the heart

there are two headless people building a burning house.
In case of rain, there was always the shotgun

above the fireplace. Always another hour to kill—only
to beg some god to return the seconds. If not the attic,

the car. If not the car, the dream. If not the boy, his clothes.
If not alive, put down the phone. Because the year

is a distance we’ve traveled in circles. Which is to say:
this is how we danced: alone in sleeping bodies.

Which is to say: this is how we loved: a knife on the tongue
turning into a tongue.