I believe in regret. I do not feel
tethered to the sun. The moon, maybe.
Once I was a little star, a tiger stripe
burning bright. Once, I held your hand
and you swallowed mine like a snake
swallows an egg. Breakfast you’d prepare
with a spoonful of hissing butter. French
toast double-dosed with syrup. It was all
powdered sugar for a time. The sky was fixed,
no lighting-like breaks. This was before
your foot splintered the door. Before the bat
fled your hand for the absence in the fence.