during which we can talk
in which obligation slows
just long enough
for time to rewind
to a day where we liked
what the other was thinking
i muster a yell, hear
barely a screech
and your machinations
once so winded, verbose--
now a one-word whisper, cheaply,
‘yes.’
large calico buildings boasting recycling
and fast-moving metallic cars begin to nag, pull back:
the opportunity is through.
time, savage,
morally absolute.
i attempt to conserve with humor
a familiar comfort, now a relic
in disrepair,
but it comes out mean
like you secretly wanted to be treated
long ago,
and i reveal with silent sounds
two hands thrown in the air
in frustrated surrender.
can’t love a ghost,
i think,
never mind two.
or a shark
pulled along by tides
and whipping fins
and--bite bite bite--
can’t love that.
or the boxes you tried to put me in:
"poor kid"
"good person"
could you even, shark, ghost,
i think,
love me,
who used to
apply glues and thread
to the insides of books
to hold them together
when they had so obviously
insisted on falling apart?
………………
©erika haines 2014
