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.