Let me promise bravely to uphold you,
though we falter at the threshold when we cross.

Hi, I said, glistening from the running;
You must be J.’s friend. Shall we fuck?

I could be a statue or a pine tree.
The love-canceling hours are gone.
There is no ick factor.

Often I have knelt beside her as she lay on the white leather sofa,
repeating to herself, Maybe one day I die soon. All my life, I’ve heard this

I remember when the lights cut out in Prek Eng
the women kept cooking
Three whole tomatoes fried in the dark

The photograph blanches then recedes then fizzes, like soda on a stain.

It says 1921 in the picture
And I am smiling
But it’s not me anymore

Man in an Easter suit
Leans into me
To kiss me

I am sorry I let you down
I was writing this poem
In the middle of everything

Everyone had the same IKEA bed.
                 She tied my wrists to hers, above my head.