You didn’t say much to me afterwards.
Summer was rotting forgetful
and delirious, and
your silence was
a windmill of mad mares in gallop on my diaphragm.
Riding them insane, circle after circle,
was the sound your steps never made across the battered carpet of a Friday.
Amid the scrolling Heinekens and after-work salsa droned,
shots downed, and fertile laughter, all in dance like valkyries clubbing,
the sound of you coming closer
I didn’t hear.
Ten thousand women raged inside me. I was all wall.
You talked to girls. They said your name,
They said your name again.
And I no longer had a stomach.
I had no neck.
My sides were callused effigies, the ache evolving through a timeline of styles.
And hour upon hour I walked between beguiling looks,
and drinks, and grinding, cheating couples, sweethearts apart, flirts and skirts, love trailing on the thighs.
I watched your arms and counted the advice of every bottle
and in eloquent avoidance of dialogue
I mazed my way into the car.
You stumbled into the backseat,
talking to everyone with words, but not to me—
And dying of your leg so close against mine,
I listened to you
say nothing of my comments,
Watching suburban lights stroll by discretely as to not interrupt
my hurricane
with images of families sleeping.
Then you put your head on my shoulder.
Dead agony suspended in half whisper,
All I could feel was your cheek.
