it’s midnight.
i’m with you
in a ball
on a quarter of my side.


you’re taking up a quarter of
my half of the bed with your engulfing
speculation and a partially harbored
rage marking pages you skimmed
to later find your place where you felt,
at the time,
some things are better left
theorized.

I’m investigating (enslavement)
an inner stillness
that dissolves when exposed
  and counting
                               to ten, my sponsor said
contusions around my throat.
you’re learning about economics
this week: hyperbole
& statistics;
which way my freckles move
depending on my
frown, or the
likelihood of a temper tantrum
over soap scum
on anything I scrubbed,
unloved refrigerator pictures
circa early nineties, 1990-91,
premature forgiveness
when I’ve still got to
fuck the bitter out
but
someone gave me two weeks
of yoga passes
so I’m suppressing it
in down dog and polite nods
on a borrowed mat
on the other side
of town, hiding my
scoliosis in poses.

the amount of times my palms moved from open to
across your cheek and at what velocity,
how much of my useless back will face you tonight,
              (how feckless am I? someone taunts)
how long before one half of the bookshelf is
strewn about the room,
how long before it’s all cleared out.
                    (you’re a poor investment, Sarah)
simply put,
how not to trust
anything that has to do with
us.
        (count each bruise as one)

you already know about sharpness.
my Christmas tree is in a dumpster
in another state and
I’m in child’s pose
hiding in the closet
and tonight you are learning
to never bet on
anything that
talks.

“the economist”

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