She lets herself  in; I hid
a spare key under
her tongue
years ago.

She says, Sup,
Florida boy?
An inside joke.
You won’t get it.
She wears a melting
disco ball. It blends
into her skin, and I
don’t think it’s make-up
this time. She brought
a baked ziti,
a pack of Marlboro 27s,
a new planet. I show her
all 800 square feet.

No one else shows up,
so I open up
some cheap champagne
and a package of Jolly Ranchers
for us to share. We stand,
downing the first glass
after a cheers to me. I won’t
ask about her next album,
about her tour, about
how that dove got in here
and why it landed
on her shoulder.

Instead I ask if she remembers.
That day? Because I can’t
help myself. Because I’ve always
told myself if I ever get the chance
to talk to her, I would tell her.
Do you remember the shooting?
When I heard fifteen instead of  fifty
and thought it was some drug deal
gone bad? When my Muslim friend
texted me, saying she shares
no religion with that 
motherfucker
and when I waited for the list
and prayed for the first time?
I mean, like, really prayed?
Out loud. I wondered
if Dylan decided to go
since Cynthia was performing.
Remember when I invited
my friends over and put on
ARTPOP and drank merlot
and when “Gypsy” came
on we sang along and kind of
danced and forgot
for four minutes?
Even just four minutes?
Remember when you took me
somewhere else? And then
I think about how dumb
it sounds, as if an anthem can save
you. As if four minutes can stretch
like arms.

What do I do now?

She pours herself
another glass
without offering me one,
the small mirrors on her arm blind me.
I’ve done this before, she says. She leans
in, her cheekbone touching mine,
her breath warming
my inner ear.
And on an exhale,
she says, Show me
your teeth.