Movement


There’s a little patch of skin
between the corner of the eye and the rise of the temple,
softer than any other place on the face.
Only just big enough to cradle the smallest finger
or maybe the tip of a tongue.

It has always been easier to stare at this piece of you
when you’re speaking and I’m daydreaming.
But I’m here, so focused now, because the tone of your voice has shifted--
An octave lower, with a note of desperation, a rest between arguments.

It would be so easy to purge my bad day onto you.
I can play the bitch as well as any—
I could, you know, slap my words
back-handed
across your cheek.

But there’s still the problem of conscience,
my mother’s gift,
my wall that stops me whenever I threaten to
dive into waters deeper than I can swim.

It would be so simple to walk away.
You’ve done it.
But, as though I held only a mere measure
of your attention,
my anger
would mean
nothing.
My broken-bone-fist-through-window-glass
would be such a small thing…
to you.

So I’ll wait, and maybe just
concentrate on that corner of your expressive eye,
ignoring the cacophony of our dynamic
and the poor rhythm of our intentions.


copyright 10.25.02 -erm

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