She says:
I don’t feel right. I’m imploding
or exploding. I’m not sure
which.

He said:
The leaves are falling off the trees,
browned to the color of the cancer
rust edging up the fenders of my car.
Usually just the leaves die, but
I think the trees are dying too.

She says:
My head is swollen. Pregnant
with ideas and failure. Full of mourning
and morning sickness. My feet so fat
I can only wrestle in my sheets
and lay with open mouth counting peaks
in stucco ceilings.

He says:
I’m hungry for change.

She said:
It’s time for me to go.