She spoke like she had a fishbone
stuck in her throat. It could have been
lodged for hours, or years. Seven years,
she said, since we fled this shoebox.
I fidgeted in my kitchen chair, almost
breaking, this chair was always almost
breaking. Through the glued-put
pane of rainy evening, headlights:
wink and pass, wink and pass. Cheap
sequin on a gravel dress.
Something slinky, oh, she said.
Never heard of expensive sequins.
She tapped her cigarette into
a pale green bowl. Tender green,
young cabbage of porcelain. Neon mouth,
voice limping out of lipstick.
She and I, we were too tired. Worn out
of love, two smudges on a
dishcloth. We could tell ourselves
we still had time;
we could tell ourselves
we were leaving.