​I put on my dress in the mirror. 6:04 on the dot, finger plugged

underneath my nose to stop the drip. One button over left

handed button, harder still with one set of fingers

rather than the intended alien two. On the ceiling, I’ll draw 

a portrait with nosebleed. Something to look up to 

the hour before its underneath is cleaned. Gold-star boxer, 

wait to die on hotel sheets before housekeeping

gives the wake-up call. It’s different from the movies, 

we only get yellow gloves and trashbags for picking up

with our hands. In a way, he and I shared this:

easy money bled with hands. His to make bleed and mine 

to get out the stain. I learned how to roll

sheets before how to count the number I rolled, and the dresses:

inconvenient seams, made for someone else to undress. It was simple–

he won every time, against anyone, face shining

with sweat and dawn. It was real. I loved him, you know.

I’d park in front of the TV and watch him win

and win and win, and we’d make love,

sometimes, in the evenings when I got off work. 

He didn’t taste like the stars or anything close,

but rather the lightness of a transition, not unlike a commercial break,

something specific to exist in its boxed criteria

and never break through. I think he wanted to be an artist. 

To make something he wouldn’t be waiting to knock down

again. When they found him, it was in parts. A hand

hanging out the side of unsweaty, unlived covers.

He was mine to mourn from the details and if I was 

 

at his last bedside, I could press my lips to his thumb

and drink the sweating clay of handmade plates

he never kilned or even ate from.