That night the neighbor’s cat pawed a pigeon down
          and tore off one wing.

Whiskey glazed the glasses we kept refilling.

Across the street—more an alley, the length of my extended
          body—I watched a woman’s toes

under a stiff curtain. She mopped to a song
          about a girl tearing a flower from her hair.

I think you’re supposed to think a man pinned it there.

Her daughter sat in their doorframe.
          A boy lighting her lower lip.

She smoked for the first time. I heard her ask how she looked
          holding it. With you,

I wonder what I should be. Are my hands stitched back?
          Is my face completely behind me.