Like the V shaped pattern of wake lines behind a boat the angle between us has stretched out far The two arms of a chevron have been forced to let go and I dream of the vertex all of the time When you are not the woman of anyone’s dreams Fridays become best for cleaning and folding clothes from three months ago They become best for dreaming incognito of serving a man’s conscience in bed for breakfast It is the type of silence that has carved the ****** back into my body It’s left the fingers searching for what stifles the neck I comfort my ******* pressing hard on the button below the belly Until I am a sour fox without blood And what good is that rug than to wipe your feet on Stationary I’m dead and Swaying like a rocking chair in my bed And for the love of god, I cannot soothe the cry after I ******