We sit, cross-
legged on a patch
of sandpaper carpet,
and we wait. You stare
through me as my fingers
dance over
the stained tabletop.
But you let me think,
without interruption, or
interrogation.
Though somewhere,
beyond the screened-
in porch, your dog
barks at a lizard.
And I remember.
Why you called me.
Why there’s silence.
Now you know,
and now you moisten
your lips and blink three
times. But you never reach,
because she left you breathless,
because your chest heaved
in pain for months
on end.
I lower my eyes,
watch my ivory legs
as they fold out like
a crisp sheets. And I
kiss your curls. And
I leave, even though
the hook that punctures
my ribcage
will always
belong to you.