Issue 138 |
Winter 2018-19
I look over and there you are
reading on the couch, your messy hair
finally beginning to gray. You are
breathing, moving molecules
of air aside, inhabiting
space that could go empty
so easily. You hold
a heating pad to your side
where I bruised your rib, clumsy
in my hunger for your infinite
variety. ya’aburnee,
lovers say in Arabic—
you bury me.
It’s quiet enough
that I can hear the ringing always
in the background now. A page rustles
when you turn it. Ice
melting in my glass topples
with a little clink.