Apollo sits opposite you,

Sleeves rolled three times to reveal

His tanned forearms.

He leans in as your laugh pours out of you

and into me.

I am filled with the crunch of late-march ice

On long-dead grass, I am filled with

Television static, an eclipse

Falls over my eyes. Slender blue flames trace

my softness.

I think of you and I think of him. The

Peculiar bend in his nose and his hard knuckles.

My chest tightens into one like his,

I can’t seem to turn my attention

back to you--

Your sweet laugh, your soft smile

Should pull me in but all I can see is my own

Supple form. Pale elbows and sloped shoulders

And delicate fingers and what you’d call a beauty mark above my lip

And none of that roughness.