BETH GYLYS
As usual, you’re in your office on the phone.
But when you see me coming, you shut your door
so I can’t hear. Your latest news: another
wants you; you say that it’s complex. You want
to keep things sane, to stay alone, married.
You’re worried you might hurt us all. Of course.
You didn’t have to tell me. I’ve felt you pulling
away as if we were attached. I watch you
through the glass; you’re flushed, nervous with me
waiting here, though you talk as if I weren’t
sitting at your door, my hands numb,
shaking with pain. How can we stop ourselves
from wanting? Do I touch you with my eyes?
You have a wife, me, and now this third;
we rotate around you like three human moons.
You turn; your hand is raised. What should I think?
What should I feel? I’d like to say it doesn’t
matter. Should I lie to spare myself?
You act surprised when you come out: “Are you
okay? What’s wrong?” as if it’s nothing, nothing:
Why am I upset? You aren’t so honest
after all, and I a moon whose face
is bruised with shade. I’ll shine my harvest smile:
I’m fine, complicit in my sorry way.
Having felt your hands on fire with years
of longing, having felt my own hot fire
emerge to meet you, finally, finally, I’m bound
to you—we all are—held in our own ways.
You will love your women as you like,
and I will eat myself like homemade bread.