We lean through pages as thin

as hymnal-print: this way

you could be any dramatis

personae, kissing your way

through a monologue. When we

sleep I dream we nod on tomb—

stones lit with your parents' names

and the cuticle of moon—

growing out of tragedy. Their

corpses suck our marrow through

root-arms, wanting something they

think we have. But when I wake—

before you do—I find our

wool-clad bones clinging instead

to stone-cast Jesus himself,

to whatever salvation is left

in his miraculous robes, toes

pointed toward headstone curtains.

I'm counting down dawn on your

lashes, cotton-mouthed without the

cue. I could have sworn you loved me

somewhere else, on another stage.