The doctor had a name for it, your palm
wets itself, folding her favorite dress
with a vague sound from the ceiling
though she will get used to a rain
that belongs somewhere else
that doesn't care you're undressed
have something to do with the cold
and the smoke-blackened sheets
pouring over her shoulders and legs
–you have become a place close by
stand here naked in front a mirror
with nothing more to take away.
My poetry has appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker and elsewhere.