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It started with an argument about pockets. I sat on a bench overlooking the estuary, a place where dense black mud would adhere to your shoe for days, that is,

I leave my apartment and cross the street where wild turkeys flaunt a purplish-black sheen, in a canyon where coyotes can tease off-leash dogs to their oblivion—former habitat of the Jalquin/Irquin tribe, members

He scared me      that mole     in the middle of his forehead a large puddle I didn’t want to fall into    He stared from across our kindergarten desks     anytimehe turned away from the blackboard

The night you tore up rose bushesfrom the front yard of my rental cottage,an ambulance came and took you to Highland Hospital’spsych ward where I watched a cigarette burn betweenyour

(Downstage right, a woman typing at a laptop with the words displayed on a screen for the audience to read. Her back is to the audience. Downstage left, a second

Sunday hike along the canyon, but not the morningyou returned from your journey interrupted,came back and rearranged my apartment. I let you do it— the mahogany table, a shared relic