blue house
he says,
think of the ring of moisture left on a table on a hot day,
the index of a cold glass even after it’s gone.
and i say
yes.
he flicks his cigarette absentmindedly
and the ash lands on his shoe and he coughs.
do you love me?
and i say
i don’t think i do.
he says,
okay.
we are sitting on the porch of a light blue house
with an old wooden swing.
i feel displaced.
he is staring at the brave grass poking through cracks
in the sidewalk,
and i am pretending i am not watching him.
i say,
am i the table or the glass?
and he doesn’t say anything
because how could he possibly explain this
to me in a way i would understand.
his eyes shut softly
and i watch the sun climb above
the trees in the front yard.
it is morning,
and still.
i say, let’s go inside, i’m getting cold.
he follows me in and steps on my heel as
i walk up the stairs.
he turns to close the screen door
and says in a voice i can’t hear,
you will always be the glass.
(reprinted with thanks from The Comstock Review, 2004)