mulled wine.

dead leaves collecting on the stone steps.
   an old man’s cardigan hanging shapelessly off my body.
(i’m shriveling)

guess we’ve been hanging out in graveyards for too long.
   i’ve been stupid to think we could avoid a conversation about death.

two of my sisters and a baby brother: you don’t know, you don’t know!

no more tips of icebergs, please.
   i’d rather a Hiroshima than carbon monoxide poisoning. 

you step out, shower-fresh.
    the water slides right off your slick skin, puddling and puddling

on the carpet. the water stain spreads and darkens.
     you’ll have it covered before anyone besides the two of us can see.