My body needs something to be wrong. You filled me like a cup and then you left. I scrub mouse blood from the baseboards. I scrape frozen bird shit from the front door. The smell of death lifts up the walls: small animals wanting in. An orange cat tosses a rag of a rabbit, whiskers it with claws. If you knew how the body can clench and hold: a quickening of the guts and lungs. I once had succulents—the man who broke in smashed them from the windowsill, and now I eat a little less, a little less not because I want to be a light bulb but because I need to be a lantern. Forever winter, the sky looks cold, pink as a clot in the mouth.