Our dinner table has deep dishes
brimmed with poison and words and
dreams that scrabble at the sky
and fall down like cheap glass and
snap and crush.
I crushed last night.
In the mirror, my body had
no lines, no figure.
I tried to say that exhaustion
got me, but my voice retracted
back to my lungs and my skin
as the furniture behind me.
I was nothing for a moment.
Nothing but shreds of self-doubt that
strain and pull together,
throughout the pilfered days, as
smoke paints the backyard,
the porch, the roof, the stairs to
our room, the anniversaries
and the first kiss.