The Questions
The form wants a number for my pain.
I think of stones in a pocket,
how many before you notice the weight,
how many before you sink.
How do you sleep? she asks.
Like a house with all the lights on,
I want to say.
Like someone waiting for news that never comes.
The questions are small boxes and I am trying to fit the ocean in them,
one teaspoon at a time.
Are you fine?
The word sits between us like a closed door.
Behind it: rooms and rooms I cannot show her,
rooms without names.
In the parking lot,
I see others walking with their own hidden stones,
their own lit windows in the middle of the night.
We are all trying to measure what cannot be measured,
the weight of water,
the color of silence,
how it feels to be almost drowning
while still knowing how to swim.
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