1,027 Readings | 2 Ratings

xi (See parer)

I called you Tuesday evening. You asked me, softly, who I was
in that affected British lilt you reserve
for salespeople and wrong numbers.

I told you about the dream. Your eyes had turned
to glass, marbles of alarming beauty,
rapt in gloss and horror. Your fingers took to my skin

with a paring knife and I watched as the silver divided me
into neat triangles, your willowy fingers parting me
like color from a fruit,

seeping the sweet white into view—No. I didn’t call.
I dialed another anonymous number from a list I’m keeping,
to tell the automated woman, over and over,

about my old convicts’ dreams of kitchens & cream walls
cleaned with morning. My mind crowds
our rooms with books and ceramic bowls:

familiar articles borrowed from an impossible future.
And so you let me wander: my flesh unparted, trying
always to reseam.
Posted 02/13/13
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