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.
I am worried about this.
He is staring at the brave grass poking through the 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, steps on my heel.
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)
