by Erin Little Luke Stackpoole On a day stubborn with rain to a tiny room in Crown Heights with a sink in the closet & an errant mouse we named something I no longer remember. What I do remember: you arrived in Brooklyn on your birthday, September, a light chill threaded the air. You stepped out of a cab & my body opened fully to you. My face lit like a bulb, ecstatic as a baby who’s found some thing that moves her. Babies don’t assign names to things, & I admire them for it.