epistolary to owed parts

—addressing you,

the smoke screen, me and the door // addressing 

your netted mouth against mine.

Familiarity— imitate the tongue to find a name. 

After rigor mortis, a slow walk to my car. 

There is a version of you unstuck to the mirror,

taking off my mantel as if a slip dress.

Maybe, after all this, I could be naked enough.

I might gaze far enough past it,

watch a woman diffuse at the edges. 

I mean, thank you 

for loaning the cigarette. 

It’s been paid back.

I paid it back. 

Cait Danielle is a poet and astrologer from California. Cait’s poetry explores the forms obsession can take and the small gods that are created along the way.