you cough loudly
without covering your
mouth as if you
don’t already have my attention.

but I am also outside
listening to the sparrows taunt
with their love calls.
we both rustle on top of
the afghan briefly
and separately.
I am sleepy eyes and smothered grief.
you are wide awake pretending to
be asleep.
I trace the pattern of moles
on your back
into a mountain.
crumple underneath,
reposition so all of my
feckless body
is touching yours,
crumble under that.
prick my skin until a dribble
comes out, some
old words:

remember when I made you all those CDs?

I muster up the nerve to breathe
on your shoulder blades.
I know every way to turn you on
and back to me but you just
shuffle, uncross your ankles
and a dog yelps
nearby.
someone screams and a car backfires
and so does every other fucking thing.
my old record heart sits away from you
buried underneath my dry breast,
soon to be mounted and wet with
saliva and soon to be cold
and longing soon after that   
remember it as
cradled by a hand that once
was open palm,
an unsteady hum,
a jagged drum that beat on
unsated memory.
you look at the ceiling.
you look through something.
you look heedless,
like a year ago,
someday the thirteenth
someone yells at their child.
you say:

the only one that still works is “How to talk to God.”

I grab the pillow for comfort.
can we still be friends?
can we still be friends?
can we still be friends?
can we still be friends?

Yeah.

and I begin to let a year pass
and something else:

 

“stay here.”

—responses from God during meditation, April 13, 2014 3:01 pm

 

 

“how to talk to God”

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