You shed your skin this morning and left it on my plate, next to the grapefruit I sliced and salted for breakfast. Then I yanked my teeth out, one by one, and placed them on the table next to your fork, fixed you eggs over-easy while you buttoned up your work shirt. You looked like a new woman, standing beside the kitchen window, touching yourself, becoming all fingertips and cloth, weaving, reconstructing each grain of light coming through from the outside. We both sang a song with no name. I called you Clay and Anchor and you called me Clementine and what was done was done.