It’s not a science, this still-cooling story:
Nora was a woman who became a couch.
Tim, defeated, clipped the fringe from her ankles
and wore it as a laurel, artlessly
microfiber, though blessed with a middle-class
honesty. Why does anyone lose
who they are? The atmosphere,
it gets heavier until it congeals
into a voice, a face, a tremulous shake of will.
Call it a symptom of overcrowding.
She loved him or he loved her too much.
Too much is the way any story happens.
Too late she realized his magic. Too much
she loved a neighbor boy. Tim was already hard-
pressed to let her go, but she breached contract,
called a lawyer. Maybe she was too
beautiful; maybe he was shunned by his own kind.
Maybe he used to be the son of a god
who thought he could have anything.