Today my nipples feel like valves cold as tuba skin. Lie on the floor & turn
my phone on & off—don’t want to know whether you plan to
call me back or not. It feels safe to assume tomorrow. If you don’t respond, I plan to
not bring it up at the karaoke bar. Plan to sing “The Man that Got Away.” I don’t know yet
whether sleeping with you was worth losing my favorite sweater. That same day all my pants
disappeared from the washer & the same winter all my tights split at the knee. If we go to coffee
tomorrow, I won’t mention this. Eat poached eggs, keep the conversation to public transportation & the preference
for solitude. We can talk about the movies, of course I’ll blame Disney.
What if I believe another sweater will sweep me off my hips from under
this afghan? What if someone tells me I’m a fine woman,
sober? I will want to believe it.