Before the Dinner

One strap still off. The overhead light

doing what it does—too white, too flat,

too certain. The collarbone. The slight

shadow it made, pointing at

the tile. I stood there. Didn't flinch,

didn't spiral. Just: that's a collarbone.

Mine, apparently. An inch

of shadow on the chest. I've known

this body longer than I've known

most people at the dinner. Still.

The way it looked. The overhead tone

of that light. The birthday. The bill

of the last three years, everyone

drifting sideways at different speeds.

I pulled the strap up. Done.

Texted I'm on my way. The needs

of the evening assembling.

I put the coat on. The light

still on behind me. Something

faint under the shirt. Alright.