Your tongue chases me around the room,
flicking at my ankles, trying to form words—
it hops like an exclamation point across
the orange shag. That probably hasn’t been
vacuumed in years, I say, but it doesn’t care.
I run in circles, roll under the bed, shake
the drapes until it turns into a pile of dust
and ash. Then I put it in a shoebox, like a
dead pet wrapped in tissue, and hide it
in the closet with the rest of our luggage.