by Steve Subrizi
We were leaning on an empty sink past the shine of a shorting blacklight.
If we had moved another inch, our dust would have glowed.
You told me you had gone back to Allston for some reason,
and you noticed a couch from our old porch
molting like a stoner in our old yard.
I asked you which couch. There was a fifty-fifty chance
it was the couch where we landed together after our one Independence Day—
the wine stain in the crease, swept and blotted by our calves.
You sharpied a coyote skull on your cup.
I adjusted my elephant mask.
You told me it was the couch
where all of the mice had lived,
and I asked you how long mice live,
and you told me they don’t live very long.