I am all these things, and yet-

Her father was born in China, or Singapore,

Brother lost at eight --

The story wears down

mountains.

Sip coffee, think about the next sip

of coffee.

She is watching the garbage men

Like she is studying for an exam

Like someone who has read the same book over and over

because everything new

is just too much.

She is not beautiful,

Not in the traditional sense. Not lush and pulsing

with life. She is pale stallions writhing in pain at the finish line,

The chance of a falling match striking a vein of coal.

Her face is smeared

with oil and sweat, her hair tangled

and her white dress

just barely holding on. She is

a used paperback novel,

both familiar and terrifying,

like sleeping with a childhood friend

seeing all the ways in which the world

has eaten you both.

This is her finger inside the hem of my sleeve, saying

Feel how rough I am. Feel how the years have worked through me

like a worm through an apple. Tell me I’m ugly and fuck me

like long division.

I’m blind and bleeding in traffic,

I’m naked in the middle of the street,

I’m walking out on coals,

To meet you.

Now we’re downtown. Now

we’re in the top of your apartment building

with the lights on.

Now we’re getting ready to go out.

Now we’re in our underwear.

Now the curtain blows.