down from the bottom of everything
the first type of loneliness is when i start
to see my own face in the bumps on my bedroom
it feels like i'm locked in a marriage with
my own head; i come home, say "honey,
we need to get flypaper, they're driving
me crazy, and say what's for dinner,"
she looks and doesn't answer, she loves
to look and not answer, she's an it, she's a
he, she's me, there's no pronouns for something that's alive
without a heartbeat. later she drifts into the
bedroom, sees me
try to tear down the rafters with my eyes,
says "we need to repaint this room, look how
it flakes where the walls meet." i laugh, say,
"no, like skin,"
and we both stare 'cause we can't remember
when this became our home.
and don't you know,
the sky is a mirror when you live in a monochromatic
world. she points at an airplane dropping thirty thousand feet
from the air,
says, "look, baby, there's us."