I watch you walk to the kitchen
to make coffee. Have come to
know the precise moment your
body will bend left to avoid
the corner of the table.
This awful silence I have lived
within, mastering the language
of touch because my hands
can’t lie, never betray.
A low honeysuckle creeps up
the hillside. All over town
lawn chairs are rusting.
1989
I wanted to leap
over the precipice
into mystery,
but my lover was – well,
more electrical,
his room filled with
amber lights promising
things were turned on.
He laughed when I said
I felt like an appliance,
plugged in when needed.
And slept through my grief,
where I whimpered against
the rough synthetic sheets,
left over from his last
wife.
1989