I wasn’t stalking you. I swear I had
no idea that you and your tank top
and high-heeled flip-flops were anywhere near.
I watched you from behind an obelisk
in St. Rose Cemetery. You rode up
with him on his bike, opening the warm
wrought iron gate as the cold gold cross hung
from your neck. You were watching yourself too,
the back of your head on a graven name,
as he kissed your twelve ribs. You were at peace,
felt not desire but curiosity.
It wasn’t about him. It was the sun
beholding you. You saw that you were good
the way light is good: by definition.