Growing up we rub our open wounds together.
Your words would still be coursing through my veins.
The lady on six with the numbers branded on her arm,
her apartment always filled with parakeets.
When I am inside you, I can feel your heart beat.
The eyes should be off limits while making love.
Marthe exposes Bonnard as he paints her,
the towel waiting to receive her as she steps out of the tub.
My mother waits until I get home.
The undertaker, handing me her wedding band, has no clue.