On the Airbnb in Carqueiranne, our king mattress’s truly two
         mechanical singles scooched collectively. With remotes, we govern

how excessive to lift his ft, my arms, whole our bodies
         butt-down birds inside plush porcelain cups. Positive, now we have intercourse.

However principally we giggle, or on the café by chance order
         half a dozen espressos, return to the condominium frizzy-frizzy.

Even so, no matter river that is, it’s calm. It’s cataracted.
         Cellophaned. First grade, my finest good friend’s dad carried his pistol

contained in the visitor toilet, by no means left. I’m ashamed
         to confess that for many of elementary faculty I puzzled,

each time witnessing the mother slathering biscuits
         with I Can’t Consider It’s Not Butter, what she’d completed mistaken.

Generally, mid-terror, his eyes metallic-consequence large,
         my husband screams for his flashlight, knocks one fist in opposition to

the mid-century bedside desk his father constructed for our residence.
          The place’s the gear, the place’s the fireplace, who misplaced the fucking batteries.

It isn’t completely a mistake, believing him awake.
          A part of his physique lives inside a metropolis I’ve by no means explored

perpetually. My favourite poet studied classical piano at college,
          hated the stage, opted as an alternative to carry out for the campus swim group.

I like to recollect the best way, when nervous, she knocks
          one fist in opposition to her cardigan pocket, ensuring a tender pack

of smokes continues to be inside. I prefer to think about a pool, heated
          and crammed with salt, the place each little bit of us floats.

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