“did you think I wore this city without pain?”
-Adrienne Rich

it’s midnight and
i’m with you
in a ball.
you’re taking up my half
of the bed with your engulfing
speculation and a partially harbored rage,
marking pages you skimmed
to later find your place where you felt,
at the time,
some things are better left theorized rather than
enslaved.
I’m investigating an inner stillness that dissolves
when exposed  and counting
(to ten, my sponsor said)
contusions around my throat.

you’re learning about economics
this week,
–hyperbole and
statistics–
the way my freckles move
depending on my
frown.
the likelihood of a temper tantrum over
soap scum on my mug,
unloved refrigerator pictures circa 1993,
premature forgiveness when I’ve still got to
fuck
the bitter out but someone gave me two weeks of yoga passes
so I’m suppressing it in down dog and polite nods
to abscond my presence from this townhouse
even over here;
the amount of times my palms moved from open to
across your cheek and at what velocity;
which side of my feckless back will face you tonight,
how long before one half of the bookshelf is cleared out,
how not to trust
          you’re a poor investment, Sarah
anything that has to do with
us.
simply put
(count the marks on my throat)
you already know
                   (you made me leave my Christmas tree in Boulder)
some things shouldn’t be touched
(and I’m in child’s pose)
and you should
(hiding in the closet)

never bet on
anything
that talks.

 

“the economist”

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