I think he’s drunk dialing me in his sleep,
from a foreign country,
and the background noise is fluffy,
but still I made out how much he loves me.
Grabbing my pinky,
swinging it around,
calling me a clown fish,
telling me to drown here.
He’s coming.
On his way.
Go on ahead without him.
He’ll catch up.
Meanwhile, the petunias are blooming together across the overhead projector.
I cannot teach class today I’m dying of reciprocation asphyxiation.
Just once,
did I want,
someone to play better poker,
wake up playfully humming the peach rose petals out,
slowly, no—slower.
Just once,
did I need,
someone to call my bluff,
blow bubbles in the figments, the harp in my heart, the magic.
Cartoons are on,
acrylics over canvas
and little pink splishes of wine we had until we were silly enough.
He was lights on, then off,
black gate pulling across the entryway,
shaking head ‘no, we’re closed,’
when I can see everything I need in the front window.
The day we hung up
I wanted to walk him alongside that wine glass
two-thirds of the way finished,
but the door evaporated as it closed gently behind him.
They say not to cry over the spilt,
but I’m not sure there’s anything better to cry over.
And the song of the week, you have to hear: “Moving in You, Moving in Me”
