I was your wife for Halloween.
I wore a wig of spitting firecrackers,
packed a sandcastle to my chest,
lacquered my stomach with honey,
wrapped my hips in sliced fruit,
twined alphabets down my legs.
I knew your bedroom closet
bulged with vacuum cleaners
stomaching the dust
you sucked from stars.
You knew I was a risk.
I walked a lady’s coat upstairs,
lifted a vacuum, ran outside—
almost to the forest. You caught me
dizzy in the lemongrass, a cracked filter
in my lap like a honeycomb
throbbing with silver bees.