Heart like the sun uneclipsed and rays like
fingertips layered in a skin of haze, a warm thing
with a hot core closing in
quickly – turn your face to the west
He did not throw himself around.
When I think about the way I serve myself,
overcooked, overdone, to the watery lips
and wide throats of men
already fat, all ready
for seconds of servings that loudly
distress their taste.
Our house is a ribcage; I will hear no more about it.
The fence licked clean, the porch kissed clean,
whitewash whiter in the sun’s eye,
blinding. Keep your dry mouth closed.