You tell me there are neighborhoods

flooded under Lake Lanier—a fable,

a Pripyat lagoon, with heavy bowls

still perched on tables and dreams

tucked tight beneath sheets of beds

the way your hands hide themselves

in my hair like forgetting,

trace my lips like a prayer.

 

Doorways fall open for us here.

We slip the world from our skins, pull

heavy curtains closed against eyes of

others, press husks of promises

between pages of guides on housekeeping

and rare birds.

 

We wake when the current turns cold,

pull up two chairs, cut thick

slices of old meat, soft potatoes, and

fingers to trade for what we stole.

The catfish lounges hungry at our toes,

begs for scraps, but you swallow me whole.

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