As if one is a shadow stitched to the other,
they sit, knees bent & parted, cradled in the basin
of the clawfoot, her belly to his spine. She leans
into him, her cheek resting against the blade
in his back, & watches the window above
the pull-chain warm from bath water to blue.
He hangs his head & keeps his hands underwater,
covering all that might split their silhouette.
— Meg Day, “Aubade,” Last Psalm at Sea Level. (Barrow Street Press; 1st edition, October 1, 2014)