I want to close my eyes but something’s

scratching. I’ll let the blood but I can’t

step back from the not knowing.

In the thick,

sick where my bones touch themselves.

Secretive, jerking.

You and I held things against 1994,

a broken radio dribbling the news. The

texture of the world was glassy, you were all

soft skin.

Now I know the year when you fall from Raven’s Cliff and

break apart on the rocks and the red dress

your mother wears to burn the pieces and the rest of

you stuck in my teeth rots.

When men are shot from windows in tall buildings there are

volcanic eruptions on other moons but your

foot slipped and I

didn’t hear the splash.