If the hand bloats after being bitten. If the match
is too wet to spark. If once touched, twice recoil,
if one knuckle, two knuckles, three knuckles. Four.
If it is December or September,
and warm bread unfolds in our mouths. If it is August
or October, and we hold pieces of ice on our tongues
till cold rivers seep out, then watch the dead insects halo
across the water. If after five knuckles, six knuckles. Seven.
We shell the nut, study the navel. Suck the candy from the
wrapper, and spit back into each other’s throats. If it is March
or April, and our bodies finally catch their ghosts. If it is March
or April, and our bodies still don’t know what to do.