

after Eric Fischl
Scene V
A half-tweed prayer, a one-off prayer,
and in her pockets, if she had them,
a driver’s license and three quarters
worn smooth. She’s no beggar, no slave
to an unpacked suitcase, to the fetal position
lit from behind like a dancer mid-barrel jump,
legs bent under him,
his head cocked in radio
silence: confidence like that is true love’s
only competition.
It’s all symbols, this lurid human affair,
and what we’re good for one day doesn’t
always carry over to the next, though
curling up under your sternum, peering through
your ribs like a crab, you might think otherwise,
you might think you can take away my heart.