Smalltalk
Knowing
that the keyholes between
your fingers won’t take me
laughing down daylight cobblestones,
knowing your winter blue eyes,
water off snow, won’t shelter
the perfect controlled growth
of corsage or skim carefully
along the dress that my children
will admire in photographs
years later, pointing sticky fingers,
asking “is that daddy?”
Seeing in you alleyways
dripping water long stale,
hands knotted up tense against
cold stone, wearing thin gloves
the next days to hide the skin
your impatience rubbed raw,
Seeing in you the power to take,
crashing mouths with no pretense
at intimacy, to rip inside,
to curse and destroy the echoing halls
of the way I have painted myself,
And imagining myself
coming to shreds already,
it’s no wonder we have a hard time
with conversation.
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