Sluggish air, briny to the tongue,
Mud flats still black from the fire in September
Because the kids had nothing better to do,
Sand, still slicked across entire streets,
Gaping mailboxes crooked with rust
And wooden boards on houses
Bearing rain-smudged black X’s.
The bus stop, splintered and heaved,
Sports new neon shapes
That we pushed into the soil
As soon as our shoes stopped sinking:
Caution.
Do not enter.
Do not come home.
The pleased sway of languid waves
Peeks, in green tips, over grainy mounds
Shoved back off of our roofs
And out of our kitchens
On to the coast once more,
But these sandy heaps
Conceal my sight of the sea
And the waves sneer as they retreat
Please don’t cry against my beckoning claw,
Or my scythe, dragged soft across wet cheeks,
For my slices are gentle, and I’ve twisted my bones
So the wink of my cloak won’t hurt your eyes.
Your mother need not wake, and neither will you.
Wet wood drips cold against three day fevered skin
And your bed is tucked, thick with sweat, beneath
A yellow kitchen and your father’s cracked hands.
Once your muddled eyes stir, you will not scream.
Your voice already belongs to me.
So I will cry out, if I don’t bury your tongue:
You did what you could. I did what I must.
Child, do not cry, do not scratch against me,
For my lightest touch will only bring
New red rivers against your soft teeth.
You walked out on a Monday
While rain leaked through my windows.
I slept on, unaware,
My fingers splayed on vacant sheets.
While rain leaked through my windows,
You left me for a suitcase,
My fingers splayed on vacant sheets
As your fingers touched the door.
You left me for a suitcase
And I bet you whistled on the bus.
As your fingers touched the door,
I stirred, but woke too late.
And I bet you whistled on the bus
Because you had slipped free.
I stirred, but woke too late.
We made each other smile, once.
Because you had slipped free,
I slept on, unaware.
We made each other smile, once.
You walked out on a Monday.
The morning, syrupy blue, drips sour on to
The curved back of a woman snug in her coat.
Around her, signs of life thrum—a cycle in repose,
Shutters open to morning light—
But she holds her breath
And remembers swimming lessons
As she moves through a street that’s
Glazed with the same hue
As a face that couldn’t escape
A hand to the throat.
Forward, a hint of light, soothing
Blinding white, waiting for her
to tiptoe skinny concrete
and slide along empty walls,
waiting for the push
back into a world with blue eyes
and loud looks at her plain face.
She jokes to herself that she is the only one alive,
and only the choking sewers
laugh beneath her feet.
Sometimes I love songs so much I can’t listen to them.
Sometimes at five in the morning when I half-joke to myself that the world is frozen and I’m the only one still alive, and the sun will soon waste its time pushing itself, pale and coughing, through dusty blinds, I get up and pace sore legs back and forth just to remind myself I can. Wet breezes slip through the crack of my window and slice into me, tiny slices up and down my arms and my throat frowning for coffee. I don’t feel them until they converge– Vicks thick goo spread into a damp blanket across my chest by fingers that are not my mother’s.
I blithely consider suicide as he and I sit in a restaurant we’ve been to before. I wonder why people need to eat together, and why watching gray shadows darken my walls make me feel like I’ve failed, but stepping outside feels no better.
Before, I knew stories from dry mouths about crash-and-burn passion. Now I know about the slow, breath-sucking drift from weighty us back to shaky me.
I don’t remember exactly who I was before us, but I don’t think I liked her.
The lamb may lie down with the lion,
And lie through clenched teeth, “it tastes fine,
I’m fine,” as her too-strong drink lies, burning,
At the base of her throat, and the lion, he lies
Back, arms folded. The party lies in wait
Downstairs, so she’ll lie and say: “I felt dizzy.
I came upstairs to lie down,” but until then,
She’ll lie here, praying that his lazy paw
Might trace her thigh, or hum the warm lie
That he loves her, or would lie down for her,
But the truth lies on his tongue as he
Stands and escapes. His scent lies on the bed,
And she chokes out the lie that she’s choked before:
“I won’t lie down for him anymore.”
Soft skin rendered uneven, harsh
Squares jerking a moment or two ahead of
Your voice, fuzzy with dogged passion,
And for the second time,
Your face freezes, mouth a comical “O.”
I use one wobbling hand
To click: Disconnect. Reconnect.
My drunk roommate’s keys
Will crunch blindly at the doorknob
At any minute, but I can’t see you,
can’t touch you, can’t trace you
Buzzing under my fingertips
Until January, when winter break
stops being a phrase, and
Becomes as real as
Your sweat, your hand tight across
My mouth, so no one hears us,
your throat clenching and
my hair deep in your knuckles.
Until then, I’ll lock my door
And fall asleep, crude and limp,
Eyelids against your bright light,
Artificial and sweet.
