“How to Talk to God”

 

cough.
windows wide open.
sparrows taunt
with their love calls.  
we both rustle briefly and
separately.
I am sleepy eyes and smothered grief.
you are wide awake and pretending to
be asleep.
trace the constellation of moles on your back
into a mountain
crumple underneath that,
old words.
“Remember when I made you all those CDs?”

minor shuffle and a dog yelps nearby.
my old record heart sits away from you,
buried under untouched breast,
cradled by a hand that once was open palm,
an unsteady hum,
a jagged drum that beats on
unsated memory.
you look at the ceiling.
you look through something.
you look heedless,
like a year ago
and you’re ready to leave.
someone screams at their kid and I can
hear the can hit the concrete.
you say:
“The only one that still works is ‘How to talk to God.’

can we still be friends?
can we still be friends?
can we still be friends?
can we still be friends?

“oh.”

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