above me she stands as
a broken bottle shimmers
in the darkness of a pool hall—
i told her once before that
no amount of breakage
can upset my follow through
and can prevent my finger
from pointing to the 8-ball,
telling her to hit it just above
the blackness. she said
she couldn’t hold on but i
wanted to edge up behind
her, put my hand on hers
as she shot. above her
i stood like the dim lamp
above our heads, swaying,
elongating our lanky shadows
on the whitewashed walls.
the grey specters float
toward the ceiling as i
curled my hand around
my cue, missing my shot
in so many ways.
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