Still Life with Small Objects of Perfect Choking Size

Nothing so obvious as a gumball,
a coin. Instead, the cap

to the chapstick, or, somehow,
the moon: Lips parted, tongue

still, the tiny blackness
of her mouth’s small pit

just large enough to slip
that lunar white marble inside—

blind cat’s eye, milky stone.
Why does she want to take

herself from me? Somewhere
in the past I’m a girl

doing a cartwheel for the last time—
feet in the air, spin of a body

propelling itself upside down,
the whole world turning while

I turn. No one knows
it’s the last time, only I do.

Don’t be so eager, I want to say
to us. In the August singularity,

the world tilts on its axis,
and our days slide into darkness—

one thing beginning, another ending,
everything undone from within.