“When he saw her expiration date,
he knew she was no good”

has always been the best
caption to accompany the tattoo

on her hip:
July 27, 1990.

When she left New York City,
he didn’t come looking for her.

When the handwriting twists
and drips and drags

and the view upside down
brings more than a blush

and ears burning. When
she closes her eyes

to bless the bats and
rights herself in time

to witness another solar ballet.
When they had front row seats

to an aurora borealis
decorating the Iceland sky.

And he almost kissed her again
after half

a lifetime swirled by
in greens and purples

and, no, a piece of the sun
did not break off.

With a name like Cathexis,
he knew she was doomed.

When an invisible being
in the woodwork watches her

move across the night
into a saturated morning,

his paralysis reaches
new heights.

When floods follow fires
and the flashing firmament

dances off the margins
of a biblical myth.

A gull flies overhead
as the ferry pushes through

the icy water, and, still, she can’t
let go.