Last night, I dreamed the man I love ironed
my heart out flat across the kitchen counter.
Wrote out his ink-dark love for me across all four chambers, gave it back blanched on a bed of satin—
a valentine. All schoolyard. All paste and puncture.
I grew grey at the absence. The walls lost all color.
Next, laughter: first soft from the farthest stretch of the room then sharp—
broken plates, forks and knives hitting floor, tea kettle cackle—
I was outside of myself then.
He held me in his hand so easy,
so Morning Paper,
I was my own gift, and I said “thank you” to the open wound between my breasts