By Steven Cramer
Feature image: The Convalescent, 1918-19 by Gwen John
We leased a two-story coloring book.
The peonies our neighbor planted
between our recto and her verso
turned out plastic to the touch.
She even kept them watered: pretty
funny, like the niblets we bought
in white cans named NO NAME.
But it’s the moon who found us
really hilarious that night—naked,
well-oiled from head to foot—
we swam across Lake MacBride.
No memories of you in snow . . .
I assume you sleep as I do, more
or less. When I can’t, can’t you?
Ginkgo trees canopied our one-
way street, no address to GPS.
Stopped for geese at Fresh Pond,
or the news on mute, I hear you,
also turned down low, say don’t
bother wondering if I’m dead. I do.