by which I mean, get over here. bring me
everything you left in the mountains
and what ticks under the cherry bedframe.
when you talk about rocks and rivers
I know you mean molars and sweat. here
we are mathematical in our translations.
here nothing means the hollow at the back
of your throat where the fog grows. here
it’s almost as if I didn’t forget the end
of all your stories until you held me down
and bruised them into my thighs. the bite
so full of stones, it’s almost as if
the wind couldn’t undo every knot
we tied. as if we made this bed
before we laid down and started to drown.