We are forever blending into some couch.
You are made of smog, smoke, fog, steam.
You are dust. You are an intangible buffet,
a cirrus cloud, a vast scab, a gorgeous vapor.
Your shoulders are static rather than bone.
Something hangs between us – a fight never
fought, a loss never lost, and the irresistible,
makeup screw. To our mad, silent lives --
from the dirtiest laundry to the lightest
sheets. Sometimes, I see your shavings.
Cutting the quiet in two, sound is our knife.
I see our small house, white paint peeling
on the left, the heart side. I see you call
the painter. I see me call the gutter man.
I see our swing, our kitchen, our late night
dinner -- orange, fake fish on green plates,
no napkin, bare clean kitchen, the scent of it.
The table, the imperfect circle. And no matter
how the meal ends -- empty or full, imagined
or real -- even if I could, even if I should,
I wouldn't take anything back. Hand me
a bandage. I see us sit down at the same
time, sinking into high-backed, black, plastic
chairs, praying and laughing and digging in,
whether or not people need to eat
in heaven.
C.A. MacConnell
