We slumber breast-to-breast
and in the morning share a clavicle.

Monday, prickling throats spelled
trouble.  You boiled a pot of soup.

Now, one-handed I unfold my glasses—
with the other twist at new-grown skin:

your left, my right; our vice-versa.
We are glued, no question.

But we dress in zip-ups and pretend
to waltz—on the subway and under oak.

By the river.  For the surgeon who saw
this once before in Santa Ana, El Salvador.