It’s Impossible to Keep White Moths

from flying out of my mouth.

I am 25. I paint the door blue. I go in when he tells me
to stay out. Next to a billboard

in Philadelphia that says Your Message Here,
I am sewn into a dress. On Broad Street, ravens

lurk on the Divine Lorraine Hotel as if to say
Always a corpse flower, never a bride.

Facing south, I can make myself apologize
for anything. My voice is thick—a shroud of bells.

But will I listen. What I hear in the dark
is my own blood stalking me

like a drunk boy wild on cheap gin
swinging his hammer

to nail a tree swallow flat to a barn door.
A bird is a vessel. It carries a field.

There are nights when I sleep on the couch
lift macramé lace to my cheek from a hope chest.

Outside, a teenager shoots a teenager shoots a teenager
The cops come to measure the street.

They ask me, What did you see? I saw a hole in the whole of the picture.
When he comes home late from his fight at the bar,

I hold a cold rag steady to his knuckles. I think I can love someone
who cares enough to bruise for me.

He touches his thumb to the corner of my mouth,
pulls back my lip to consider my teeth.