by Allyson Paty
The thefts had been small: last milk from the carton,
a moment, a glance, the buttons from my dress.
We sat where you gutted the fish, the house dark,
and our suitcase zippers glared back at the sun.
Passengers emptied onto the street the way doctrine
charges from the apse. A bus hissed, whimpered, and
lurched away. Your watch ticks out on the nightstand
until the little black beetles overcome the flour.
The gifts were also small: a bistro matchbox, a touch,
a shiver, a clover dried and pressed in the middle of a hymnal.
The cat would not stop licking her haunch. I, too,
sweltered in my fur.
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