—For C and D
In sun-soaked Iowa, we eat peach rings
two at a time, crowd their gummy bodies
into our mouths. I want to pocket the bits.
Down in the laundry room, we melt
Tide Pods between the pads of our fingers,
their blue-green skin. These fluorescent lights
bleach the air limp. I cough up dryer lint—
I want to cry. How easy it is to admit that
we are happy and stand by it.
In the room with purple walls, we watch a movie
with the door ajar. A man and his bulldog sway
to the tug and tussle of the washing machine.
It is June. I tire of goodbyes. Say tomorrow
we meet on the twelfth floor twelve minutes past
midnight. Say we reincarnate into the lacewings
holding fast to this glass cage.