by Jennifer Manthey
She says, This is what I want, and the embassy
coughs us out like questions. There is traffic
and the sound of bells.
I can see her death waiting in deep pools
of collarbone. Her smile is a hook
in my skin or a kind of marriage.
I leave her, return to my blank room
where the moon comes out like faith—cool
and distant and changing its shape.
I escape her like a mine
I fear will collapse. My hope
is dusted off and still.
Yes, this is what I want, she says, and her words
float in air like ash
or a song.
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