Her cupped palm over
my mouth, then over hers,
again, as if swallowing
my spirit whole.
She asked if I believed in ghosts.
I responded: “Some,” my voice
a raspy set of scissors: “What are you?”
“What are you good at?”
I am—despite being on the side
of angels—not one of them.
I dress like a grocery store manager,
like an abandoned refrigerator
and we will carry on this feud
forever, she in her evening
dress, “Just look at it,” she says.
The floatable dusk marking the half hour,
and here was one empty room, there, the other—
that was the extent of our transgressions.
It was the history of light.
But, there are tides in the body. And once
you stumble, love transforms
into movable furniture or plastered over
grimaces, gazing out of a passing train’s
window, at the loose atmosphere
behind the pane of glass.
And she had felt glad
she’d done it: swallowed, down,
then thrown the last inches
away, then wiped her fingers, her
thick fingers, then finally said:
“I don’t pity myself.”