Little bastards of vine. Little demons by the pint. Red eggs that never hatch, just collapse and rot. When my mom told me to gather their grubby bodies into my skirt, I'd cry. You and your father, she'd chide— the way, each time I kicked and wailed against sailing, my dad shook his head, said You and your mother. Now, a city girl, I ease one loose from its siblings, from its clear plastic coffin, place it on my tongue. Just to try. The smooth surface resists, resists, and erupts in my mouth: seeds, juice, acid, blood of a perfect household. The way, when I finally went sailing, my stomach was rocked from inside out. Little boat, big sea. Handful of skinned sunsets.
After you've surrendered to pillows and I, that second whiskey, on the way to bed I trace my fingers over a thermostat we dare not turn up. You have stolen what we call the green thing— too thick to be a blanket, too soft to be a rug— turned away, mid-dream. Yet your legs still reach for my legs, folding them quick to your accumulated heat. These days only a word can earn overtime. Economy: once a net, now a handful of holes. Economy: what a man moves with when, even in sleep, he is trying to save all there is left to save.