Let’s start over.

Trust me, I’m not that big

on accuracy, so if your secrets are lies

they are still safe with me.

Another woman

would not admit that she’s yours

for the taking –but you can

take me among the furs in the coat-

room, on the tablecloth’s pleated spill,

in front of the mirror that cracks

with light to salt open your eyes

and catch you off-guard.

At the seam of bruised mouths,

agape as a fissure on the skull.

the last word is always smothered.

I don’t usually do this, you say.

We both know you never do.