Suspect

A body is a place missed specifically.
—Brenda Hillman

Curtains float
& the house

docks, all its clocks

poker-faced, blank. Dishes:
done. The day’s

animal is down. Boy sleeps
on his shelf, husband

on another
like the same two doors

to a dream—

               The house settles
but the night, let in, listens

like a guilty twin
to my out-loud wandering.

Lately a line drawing, a wire
I live in air—

Where’s my fill, my plush

other, illustrated life?
That I tired of

& traded, willingly
              it seems & still

I would,
I cannot solve it, yet now, now

I miss my love

              am ruined by the loss

of mouth & tongue / his
mouth / his

tongue / & my
              wants

washed &
folded away! My-

self aproned, pocketed!

               Mind,
                              what have we done?

Tell me where the body is.

               The moon’s small

mercury clings
to the handle & drain.