Happiness

Then there was a sign of happiness: The postman
          blew me a kiss while I raked the leaves.

You’ve seen this before. Once I wore
          an impossible dress to a party and drank so much

I woke with a mysterious bruise. You should have known
          that was what I called happiness. Not

the bruise, but the not knowing. Anything can happen.
          I like it like that. You show me

the target and insist I put my finger through each hole.
          You are right to think this will impress me.

That it might get the response you’re after. But remember
          I am the girl who, long before you,

hopped on the back of some guy’s bike never thinking
          he could drive me to the cornfield

and leave me there when he was through.
          It doesn’t really matter that I ended up

with only a tailpipe burn. The point is I can’t quite say no.
          And neither can you. And who wants to anyway?

Especially when you’re not really sure what you might lose.
          Is that why you moved the gun to the bedroom?