watches me slip out of my skin at night and transform
into a ghost that only knows how to practice forgetting.
This is her curse: doomed to pluck the strings of the violin
growing inside her belly each evening
until the day when its scroll will break through her
and out into the morning air, alive.
She watches me drink and sometimes we kiss
when the absinthe has done its job
but mostly we know I spend the days
peeling cinnamon into a box of bone,
hoping for a miscarriage.