He and I mapped our failings, fingers tracing
where we threw our belongings
off the balcony. There’s the spot
I cried along the highway. Show me the place
I can share his grief. The air was stiff
with summer, our fights stealing
breath from open windows.
Fireflies floated in the woods, gasping for light.
Today, I yelled at my mother,
my open hands smacking the house.
The furniture wears as we’ve forgotten how
to live together. I don’t know how to say
this isn’t home anymore, so I hold her waist,
do the dishes without her asking. On our porch,
the wren sings and bends twigs into a nest.