overhead

this is our hands
on the overheard project 

i'm thinking
about what our shadows
do when we're busy 
having flesh

laminate halo boys 
as tall as
paper clips

metal knees tucked
& tucked & tucked 

you met me there 
& we threw our bones 
like handfuls of
sandbox

in 4th grade 
as the class
was learned long
division-- mrs. petry's 
green dry erase 
marker dissected
numbers-- projected
onto the screen 

her hands flickering 
fire-stations as she
would adjust the light 

i was always so
aware of bodies  

i'll say that's the reason
that i don't remember
much about math

other than that there
is a methodical 
art of how to breakdown 

big numbers with smaller ones

if you press your
hand to a light bulb
it lights up
reddish-- 

sun dipped in
a hallway of blood

in the bathroom the windows
had an opaque finish
on them so that you
couldn't see out--

our shadows
hovered over us--
phantom like & 
anonymous

which one was mine?

did we switch shadows
& that's why i've thought
of you so much 

even though we're older now

i haven't seen
on overhead projector
since high school

but i kind of want one

to set it up 
plugged into the 
corner of my bedroom

casting me again 
& again onto 
the empty wall
where i always said
i would hang posters

i want to be alone
when i throw my
body like that--

maybe your shadow would
peel off--

meander my room 

we could have recess 

draw on the laminate papers--

five-pointed stars
& hearts

whenever i don't know
what i want to doodle
i just make a heart-shape

i always have--

it's almost a nervous
tick-- giving life 
to the vestibules 
of notebook page

i'm plugging in
the projector--

faint hum

will you meet me?

i want to show you 

how thin &
flat we can be

laying down--

sun burning--

do our shadows  
ever divide themselves?

when we're busy
washing our hands 
with the pink sting-smelling soap

finger by finger

caterpillars wriggling across windows

i'll be the dividend 
if you calculate 
how many of you 
have fit in me

as we stand 

mathematics these
bones-- 

maroon pulses

kissing with
the laminate paper 
slide between 
our lips