by Nadine Hitchiner

Nothing happened in the fantasy—his skin is still full
of harps. It’s raining, outside the birdbath like an open
chord. It’s because he’s all fact; a time-worshipper.
I make room in the piano, for the skin that falls
when he rises and enters the day, slim body, tight
shirt. I missed how he took another slice of pizza,
could’ve fooled me for a loop—probably some saturday,
around the same time as now. His beard is making
sentences with full recipes, I’ve run out of flour—what dough
to press against it? I said, c’mon, let’s do some yoga!
Miscalculated the small life a downward dog leads.
In his sleep, I grind my teeth for him
like pearls in the mussels
of his ears. Last night we stayed
in, and when I woke this morning, the house reeked
of cooked meat. I’ve put the roses on the grill
so it’s still August, when we wake.