Winter in Providence, R.I.

We fight in the snow on the walk over. Shoes off

at the door. Of course. I’m embarrassed

by the crust of salt my boots will leave on the floor

of this old Providence house. You tell me about

your other friend (it’s her birthday). How once,

as she danced on these floors, the alcohol in her cup

shimmering off of her, she felt the prick of wood;

a splinter, driving its determined way through

her flesh. How it stayed with her for a month,

until she took herself to the health center

where they finally cut it out of her. The body

is supposed to expel these things, isn’t it?

I spend the night tightening every muscle,

on the way to becoming impenetrable.

Revelations