Katy, the part of me that lives
with you in your converted church
house in Alabama has been quieting.

the last dream was weeks ago.

you spoke to me about my hands
and I was underwater

you said:
long stretches will move you through

we sat on the steps of a ruined building
and I counted your fingers and then
counted them again.

black dress two arcs around your thighs
stains on the bricks, maybe bullet holes
white chipped paint
This is home

a river between your shoulder blades

I painted your legs with long yellow
and white strokes