wash

I traced the silhouette of
her body with the tip
of my finger. I felt every
indent, every character
flaw, every blister on her hand
and I felt the cold crescent,
constant moon. I saw your outline

shift; your body contorting. I
heard you call yourself a woman
displaced in time. You had your
toes dipping in the river, and
you told me you wanted to feel
the bedrock, despite your not
knowing how to swim.

You wonder why it is called
“cold steel” when it burns so
hot when it has drug across
your thighs. You cut your hair
shorter than you cut off your
sentences when you feel you
are talking too much. “I’m
sorry. I’m sorry. “I’m sorry.”

Our fingertips are not
intertwined, but our veins are;
our vocal chords entangled. I
feel the wiring in your brain;
firing neurons like a firing
line, and you stand proud. You
call yourself damaged goods.

I wonder why you are so
fascinated with the ceiling
fan. Are you trying to keep
your eyes aligned with the
blades? Could it support
a body? If it is anything
like me or my legs,
it cannot.

There is history here; the
rooms in the hallway, the
pictures in frames.
Southbound down 65 with an
unopened bottle of Jack
Daniels. You imagine Hell

being a slightly hotter
version of West Lafayette.
You see bridges over
interstates. You freeze
frame the moment of the
collapse. Replay the
memory. Letting go is an
action which requires active
practice. Your hands are
wrapped so tightly, but
gradually you are lifting
fingers. When it rains,

your makeup runs. When
it snows your makeup
runs. When it is hot,
your makeup runs.

Keep close the knowledge
that you are the binding
of my books. You are the
ink in my pen. You are
the sound in my song.
Sing. Crescendo. Crash.
Collapse. Rinse. Wash.
Repeat. You say that your
father was an artist. You
are but a painting. I am
only a washed up memory.
You still sing the words
Like a battle cry:

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”