Your voice pooled around my commonsense.
I pulled white silk through my brass ring,
dropping hints at your pigeon-toed feet.
A pulse jumped under my blue-veined skin
a mosaic of pain breaking out like war.
At the rehearsal, Mother in her flatline calm
bombed our drinks with cherries
and posted a curse above the published banns.
We sat there glumly, holding back her hands.
Before this devolves into a narrative of hindsight-
your heart grows numb, the kids burn down the halfway house -
you should know I’ve come prepared: keys jammed
between my knuckles, a map of alternatives on the dash.
Right beside the rigid Mary. Right under your lucky dice.