Three years ago, before the separation,
hate-spattered yellow, Sherwin Williams,
the boundary of our bodies growing jagged,
then dashed, to suggest disputed territory.
I imagine you sleeping with the same intensity
of a squinting cat. You are not asleep,
yet things go more literally, smoothly,
as when the fret at the foot of the floor grieves openly,
the way morphine spiggles out the door and down the stairs.
Look what you made me do: a snake-eye roll of the zodiac.
This poem appeared in Midway Journal, 2020.