I am the city and you are my work of great mischief.
The way the summer lasted, the way we flung our bodies on the bed,
the way you said in the morning, I couldn’t sleep because my neck
was touching my neck, the way our grief flooded under the doors,
the way we whispered through the fans’ motors. Such mangoes
en flambé we’d meant to mark this summer, too, excruciating.
And then, tonight, so tipping in our chairs, at last, so chilled,
so shutting windows in a flurry, the way you heaved your
weight against the sills. I was alone. I did it myself. I called
you to say finally and you said yes and I grew sturdy in my chest.
We aren’t in our bodies these days. All those babies in your
womb were never real. I was there. Their tiny bodies dropped.
The way, even in summer, chill pooled in the iron tub & spouts. 
The city was burning—or it wasn’t.
I am the city and you are my work of great mischief.
What They Tell You
The world is my