In traffic, you ask me if I checked

the organ donor box. Basil blooms out

of my carelessness. I forget to pick the chives.

I think of your body still lengthening, free

of visible blemishes save the single scar,


fainter now, forehead to table the week

before I married, how after the dog licked

up your blood, I’ve doubted everything but

your limbs. At night, you sling me all the tea:

texts sent, timed out, Grandma telling


you your body is beautiful, but

your shorts are too short. Light filters

through the self-portrait above the piano,

your face all angles. Mold festers green

in the glass I left on the stoop. You tell


me you’d want me to know who took your

heart, your slate-gray eyes. Whole forests die

for less than this. In the morning we stop to pull

a fawn from the road and walk back to the car.

You ask if you can drive me home, and I say yes.

What are you looking for?