A pool
lined
with evergreens,

needles falling
into the water,
floor

painted a milky
jade. A car
in the driveway.

A mother.

Another mother.

A cockatiel
in the hallway
squawking

next to the plastic
slippers.
Glass

after beveled glass.
Secret
after beveled secret.

Letters from a
first crush
now dead.

Killed.
We wanted
to be asked

of these things.
We spent
much of our lives
imagining.

To tell of them
was to live
again.

We rathered
and rathered,

scraping the soft
moss
off

the gravestones
of our early
dead—