shannon is turning to gold
in a bathtub in texas
while i fold laundry
in my room
alone.

i think of the steps leading
into the river
how i would have
followed you until
we made up our mud beds
and learned to speak catfish
fresh whiskers sprouting
from each side of
our mouths.

i am still trying to invent
a language for our love
to write its letters in
what shape to make
the signs in the woods
that lead to where all stairs
blossom.

what happens to the altars when we go,
who finds our half-built houses in the weeds?

what cat stalks
the mouse i have become
will i rest at last on the carpet
in your bedroom
my body snapped
in half, tail missing
dark eyes wide
and open?