You and I are building a skeleton in your closet,
picking off our bones like vultures and stringing them together.
We use your kneecaps and clavicles, my ribs and teeth.
Once I saw a man in Central Park sleeping on top of a mural
he had painted of the only woman he ever loved.
When he woke up his sleeping bag was gone,
but her face was still there.
My father memorized the Greek, Russian, and Italian alphabets
just so he could tell my mother he loved her
in four different languages, including his own.
We hang that skeleton up from the hook attached to the ceiling,
like this is an execution and you’re the hangman.
Sometimes when we’re apart I think I can still see you,
but then I remember it’s just the way the light forms
the shape of your mouth.
As a child my parents were unable to explain to me
why the moon comes out at night
and the sun during the day.
It’s science, my father said. It’s poetry, said my mother.
It’s neither, I thought.
We’re standing like deer in the headlights of one another’s longing,
but the invisible length of rope between us
just keeps stretching and stretching
as if God were playing tug-of-war
with the angels.