Until the credits roll, while an upholstered arm
and a floor that’s lava are all that separates
a heart beating into futon from
a breath accelerating over sofa,

I’d always swing my leg, duck my head, 
and weight my balance sideways,

maneuvering through barriers
that I would have called an alarm system

first published in Suburban Witchcraft Magazine

first the twist of leaves,
tight as an icicle

The souls I wouldn’t try to fix,
the compliments I didn’t give,
and all the hearts who never asked
for mine to be so earnest—

When the hawk lifted above the goats
grazing on the mountain,
into the mist-filtered,
sun-kissed sky,