+

This morning I made coffee as if my womb was
not a dried blond leaf.  I might not be as sharp

as a breath mint, nor beautiful as needing one.  
I may not love that you think of me as a screwdriver

or milk cap.  But this morning I rose from the sheets
like a tiger, like an obituary, a vial of cocaine.  I have

ruined my marriage by swelling and swelling into
sorrow, but I rose this morning, did my hair like it

was a white flower, or shoes that had not yet been
tried out.  This morning I entered the kitchen.  You

were making deviled eggs and your arms looked
sooty as if you had been climbing up fireplaces all

night.  I touched you there, this morning, I pushed
you to the couch and rose over your body like a tiger,

a tiger that is thrilled about death, only sees it as a
place to eat.  I bit your earplace, delicately.  I did not

need to tell you how I woke up this morning: flock
of wild shadows in my armpits, toes speaking German.  

You knew.  I pushed my mouth to your mouth like an
animal would, to say that it is sorry, but not regretful.

+