The skin lets out its bawl that no one knows me but me.
We make a pact to know the light between us is clapped out
and when. When our skin skitters. And I am so close
to knowing why you do things better than you know.
So close to bearing the weight of your thoughts as my own.
But I stutter. And you say something unintelligible
like anything you say has a purple meaning. You barely
let your name out. This is when I call myself
and your cries are next to me but your cry is after my cry
and our cries hyphenate. Farther away, echo.
Blind rage is behind me and coming strongly through me
to meet your wonder as I trouble to speak.
You say your name. I think I can hear your dream.
In that dream of death what sleep may come. It is already
too late to pretend that it is not too late to go.
The lamp is at the edge of the desk now and you work there.
I am reading a book with my eyes closed and can almost make
something out. Your body flips open in a bookstore
with the new collections crackling with hope
in your hand. My body is the simplest detector of your willingness.
There is nothing to ruin between us. But the stuttering. It is an accident
that I was made this way and you that. What if I were the woman.
Now that I am the woman, what if I were the one who came to you.
I think in your head my own paltry beginnings. You say your name
and I say my short lines as well as I can remember them.
Repeating the same role in them I play until I catch
in the same spot. Starting over has its pleasure
but its dependence on failure. You say you’re a thought
in me now that could be like a white flag. It flashes.