Last night you dreamt you pulled the moon from the sky
and slid it into a waiting canoe, towed it down the river
until it stole out of sight;
I’ve never seen someone who wears darkness so well
like a second skin
that never needs dry-cleaning.
When you watch hockey you always cheer too loud
and we eat raspberries cold from the fridge
as a substitute for kissing one another
whenever we’re having a fight.
Sometimes I send you postcards in the mail
even though we live in the same house
because I like to watch you open them up
and wonder who they’re from.
You have a birthmark on your left thigh
that looks like a red nebula; I like pretending
I gave it to you so that even when you live
on the other side of the planet,
you’ll still have something left
to remember me by.