That was the year we decided on giving up beauty,

no more mourning, forget the symbols and unnecessary dreaming.

It is okay to admit if you’re not courageous, just rest if you’re tired,

the ox is sleeping beneath the blackthorn

and knows exactly when to wake —

which is not now, was not then,

the room so cold we could see our breath,

words briefly visible, drifting across the bed.

I still picture us like this:

your ears red as conches, skin pink,

translucent as umbilical cord

beneath my touch. 

That was the year we decided no new beginnings,

no more youth and terrifying magic —

just someone to change the music,

pull splinters from your feet, 

to shout:

  Screw the doors back in their jambs!

  Screw the locks back on their doors!

  I am tired of seeing and being seen.

I still think about the night it happened, 

on the way to some party neither of us can remember,

you drunk, though we’d agreed to forget the wine,

and the moon was so perfect — cut clean in half.

I don’t remember what I said,

only that I held your hand on the curb.