Your Ex Mistakes Bocce for Baci
by Jaclyn Dwyer
It is an underhanded game. Two planets clunk—
shuck divots in the sod as they fight to be the last
to kiss the jack, a fat bead settled into a slump
in the yard. It's hard to see but easy to hit.
I pull the dog into the tub when your ex
hurls a bocce ball through the front window,
and pray to the Patron Saint Against Impertinence.
You tweeze splinters from the floorboard seams.
But I want to push them in deeper, like seeds. Press
them to black carbon and grind them into the earth.
We'll water them with the puppy's piss, make love
on the creaky pine, our skin ripped open like the lawn.