Now, the silence of fingers through hair, of imperfect
engines. Paper gone pink at the edges, and the whiskey-
throated woman finished singing. The silence of fifth grade
valentines crumpling in desks. Of mouths pressed to palms
inside sleeping bags, or the blue insects gliding the oil-stained
driveway. Now, the yolk in the hand, bloody, the math
problem involving bones and sticks, where I name
myself geometry. The silence that halves, then halves again
