On Being in Love with a Murderer

The possibilities of hallways brimming with chain-
linked doors, but I remind him this is not the afterlife,

that he cannot be in every room at once. Remind him
of his own lesson – the body, despite its flaws,

can be persuaded air tight. I usher him onto our balcony
overlooking the alley. Channels of wind carry away

the catch phrases he practices on unsuspecting passersby.
As evening bruises, he laments about the caves

outside of town: so many stones, so few knives.
What use is flint when it cannot spark against bone?

Yesterday, I tried to take his mind off the situation
with the whitest lilies. But he did not notice

until they began to sag. He always misses
the prelude: in the corner, I, too, am growing

weary of lifting up my petal dress.

-- Jason Fraley