Ken and Barbie

We draw the shades to hide our clutter.
The dogs one black, another yellow
dream against the floor, clicking paws
across the hardwood; the sound of brooms

sweeping out a cellar.

You remind me to check the doors as if
what we've kept secret here, could return
and rob us of more; my right hand
purple-grey- a dead man, a careful thief

twist the locks repeatedly. Tonight,

there is no wind or heat, through
the skylight, a willow-fingered palm
slices through moonlight, a knife
through cheese or wet hair falling heavily

over a naked shoulder. I feel you

somewhere in the house preparing
for disappointment, drawing up
your knees, a uterine heartbeat slowing,
slowing progressively, an urban disease,

a neoplastic amnesia, like me-

a synthetic doll who lowers
the shades, locks the doors, ignores
the missing pieces, designed to fit in
perfectly, flawlessly, beneath you.