Mark Bibbins

By the Skin of Our Luck

I used to ride around in the hole
in your lapel. From there I could watch

the fires climb out of the dumpsters
and into the sky while you caught

cinders on your tongue like snow.
I felt safe when I figured out

what you actually wanted,
despite the odd aerosol can

exploding in the night behind us
and the pleasure of your hand

sometimes finding me though otherwise
you let me pretend I was hidden.

The sun followed us all the way
to Mallorca, as did the lone helicopter

that trails me to this day.
I don’t even hear it anymore

but I see what it does to the surface
of the water and your hair

and I’m sorry—you thought it was
your fault, didn’t you, all those years.