The floorboards in the kitchen are warm
against our feet, familiar
from before we can remember.
You are snapping the wishbone,
and it feels as if it is my bones that are splintering,
slippery between the fingers of children.
This is the kind of death no one taught me how to mourn,
this halfway empty end to love,
scattered on dinner plates and dropped in the trash.
In the world I want to believe in,
when my fingers find yours under soapy dishes,
you do not let go.
On the drive home, your feet find the dashboard,
your dark hair a kite, your window rolled as far down as it will go.
I count the telephone poles we pass together
in the honeyed dark.