Running out of bras before knives

for Mary

A poem
is a twenty-dollar bill
folded into
a bayonet

slipped behind
the bra without
a secret compartment

left beneath
a mattress in Prague

next to a crumpled napkin

formerly perched
on top of a tray,

a swan set next
to the butter that hasn’t
melted under my tongue

even as
I serenely slice
half-truths to be served
with dinner’s red-eye gravy.