To the loves who wear slits like bracelets,
The woman downstairs knocks until death
but you can’t open the door just yet. You don
a silk kimono he got you from Japantown
months ago, on a last minute honeymoon
and open yourself, ajar.
“We had a terrible fight last night,” you try to explain.
She nods knowingly.
“When I was married, years ago…”
Back in your shell, you stare out the window
and see the world change like a wound.
You think: to the all the loves who wear
slits like bracelets, you have to let them know—
beneath the redness, you aren’t alone.