by Hillary Kobernick
After midnight, no one wins arguments.
We just untangle our limbs and roll
to the edge of the bed, our silence
drawing chalk lines of possession.
Your silence hurts more coated
in nightshade. I can feel your bones
growing hungry, digging for sun,
protruding from skin like buds
in false spring. In the morning
my bones will blossom into
kaleidoscope tulip fields. Someday
we will learn to live without photosynthesis.