she was
a rattle in the chest
of a sleeping child
and the red velvet
of a dress pressed neatly
below the knee
she was
a mosquito hum
in a mother's ear
and the kneading
of skin on the ass
of a bold eyed temptress
she was the quiet
of warmth
and of muffled covers
and the slice of a blade
above his naked bones
she was the scene
through a window
with the darkness
in his breath
and the light that fell
across an empty floor
she was
they sit across the table
as you rearrange your napkin and your bent fork
with cold hands and your bound life
you are swallowing and aware
with the rise and the fall of your covered breast
you count the distance from here to there
buffered by the hum of voices around you
droning the things you used to bemoan
they sit across the table wondering
why you've gone and where you've been
and why you are chewing
with your mouth open
while damp eyes draw patterns
of moments in time on the wall behind
that is covered with a child's fingerprints
