my grey nail polish comes off

crouching down i dipped the brush
into overcast afternoon, drew 
paint across each fingernail & held
mannequin still at the dining room
table while i waited to see you.

& the front door laughed at me for
being romantic, making a fist 
or a doorknob 

i replied
let me have today

the grey, the seabirds came to 
fly across my thumb & my index finger
& i worried you would notice.

the 3rd day we knew each other when 
our teeth were already made of wine glasses 
& your hands touched me as one would
peel apart the lobes of an orange, on that day
the juice ran down the shingles of
the house, the woman on the sidewalk
took plastic bags for a voice.
you left & the seabirds followed you,
the plovers & the gulls.

i tell you another story about myself
& as i do the first edges start to
chip, my mother's cracked windshield,
the sky leaving pieces of herself
in my porch light.

i want to walk you so far
home that your front door is
only a rib cage.

a door knob is only a fist.

the chickadees that were once
all my freckles on the pavement outside
scattered with me & i wash the ceramic
bowl in the sink, more polish
coming off under the hot water,
clouds milky, i save them before
they go down the drain,
i find a jar to keep them in for you.

in the court room waiting
was when i noticed over two days 
most of my nails had come off,

that's 4(?) 5(?) days

tectonic body, oh what of
the ache of earth as she has
to contain us, oh, what
of the segments of the orange
& the first.

today is the 6th day 
that i've know you & only 5 of
my fingers have nail polish left 
on them. 

i harvest, the heaven free
of it's own color. cool grey,
where blue goes to sleep.

i go to sleep in the rind of
the orange, pull the trash 
bag around my body, in hale 
& speak plastic bags.

now the shorebirds 
will find somewhere else,

their foot prints in the driveway,
on my forearms & other excuses for
self harm.

where did you sleep last night?
in what color?