untitled semaphore

—

There’s a time stamp lodged in the back of my

throat

I tried to speak, but the words curdled

on the way out.

In your voice, my repetitions sounds

like bad milk.

The same lines that used to send you

over three or five octaves before.

Now it’s like being considerate with dead meat.

I’m in the front room, naked,

curling my finger to send a message

some silent semaphore

between the ribs and half-empty cans.

The night spills and covers the room,

but I keep the light on

for a flicker of recognition

the way you might glance,

the way you could witness me.

It’s getting cold, baby-

still, I wait.

Keep breathing, keep waiting,

Picking off the frost over my eyes,

even if it makes me blind

more than love does.

It used to mean something.

I used to mean something.

Your body used to jolt me up,

like a sudden urge or a car crash

I was happy to walk in with.

But it was theater—

cheap lighting, picture show, faulty wiring,

a wax apple in a glass bowl.

An exchange for thirty pieces of silver.

The last words: “Et tu, Brute?”

Now I see it—

it wasn’t love,

just timing,

just skin.

You never opened the door.

I just learned

how to knock quieter

—