She's quite agreeably incoherent.
Quite, he says,
as he snuffs his cigar,
the stanching white marks on my table.
They are like rope burns.
His straight, green lips are
I am rummaging,
searching for the fundamental.
I have shaken every leg of the table.
Lean and narrow,
like my whittled spine, hunched and mottled
like a turning pear,
festering and frozen in the pantry.
Still, you do not see me.
His threats today,
They are the opening glares
of cold wars. He is praying,
but I am wishing already that we had not met.
He is pelting poker chips like bullets.
I have laid my flag out
like a tablecloth.
Every stitch is mine
every stitch is longing to be undone.
It wants to weave a symbol,
suspending the promise it spun.
She is sitting, affected,
fingerprints on pyramids of mirrors.
Her excruciating pallor,
the most beautiful I have ever seen.
Champagne is her dialect,
her grandmother is her voice.
Her hands are folded and dusted lightly.
Now which way is north?