She

She took my poems

out from my fingers

and spread them across

my lips so that

each letter I smeared

she smeared onto me

first with her look

or her heels or

her cheeks or her

self. I’m stained.

 *

Covers fall

in between us

and she has

never been more

distant.

Is the bed

too large

or am I

too small?

 *

Sun slings

over her hat

licking her in

ways that I’d never be

able to with my belly

round and full

with a life

without her.