we go on walks now
along the shore
of Lake Pontchartrain in March
we pass each other
little hand-drawn hearts
held together by a paperclip
My ribcage hurts from a fracture
glass raining sideways
creating artificial pathways to pathogenic selves
made whole by my Dracaena
feeling as if this liaison were essential
to being
at war with asymptomatic transfers
A bluejay feeds at the edge of my mom’s yard
as skies clear over Milan and Eastern China
all the way to Detroit
like the future
which has become personal
to me
after all
leaving not a trace of you nor i
at the kitchen table
seen from a FaceTime camera
the space btwn us
living in a server
in Maiden,
North Carolina
becoming both untouchable
and closer to
death
