Three

The next time in bed I cried after he came. I could not just think of my body like I used to — floating there, white and bowed like whale bone — but rather as an internal rivet, like the place just below the base of a plant, warmed soil, veined roots. He does not have to think of this like I do, because the space of time I wait before finding out whether I will bleed a little or a lot presses against me, hounding the bottom of my brain, the dogs still bark. He won’t be picking his skin or staring at the angle of the moon or contemplating the metallic stick of his lips because time works differently when you don’t have to consider a ribbon wrapped around a bomb.