Working with B. W. J.

Onstage with him. Improvising. Then I flub,
so I get glib and gag. Normally we are tuned

so tightly that if one confides a fear of snakes,
the other hisses helpfully, shedding their skin.

Now I've overquaked. I've cracked like a bad bell. Choices loom.
Will he tear my mouth off? or push me down a flight

so I land, doublecracked, on my sensitive head? Not him.
He stoops over and gentlekisses my nervous clapper.

Offstage he rubs my skeleton. He lets me tug his beard
to prove it's real. He says something like, baby,

if we are stark with kindness to each other,
we will be painted lovingly by the truth.