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When Someone Says I Love You the Whole
room fills up with iced tea, something gives: the sun peels from your window, a sugared lemon, whole, flaming, hanging there—You tell them they must: puncture your chest with a straw to suck all the empty out, but because they say love they think they can’t hurt you, even to save your life, which is why you float up up up knocking your curled toes and bedeviled breath hard against the tea-stained ceiling, why you swim sentry over the oxheart that flooded your bed, hollowed you out. See it there: big and bobbing wax fruit, sweating with the effort of its own improbable being, each burst of wetness a cry to which you are further beholden, a sweetness trained against your own best alchemy—Witch, you can only watch this bloodletting from above, can only amend the deed to your body: see it say it back, see it like a little rabbit with a twist on its neck and wish you could be that, being had, being held, but instead you grow wooden and spin on your back. Propeller? No, there is no getting away from this, and so: ceiling fan, drowning their hushed joy, going schwa schwa schwa in
the bed’s sheath of late afternoon light.