Ring-necked snakes move beneath
rusted out sheets of tin piled in the yard.
Yellow bellies carve perfectly symmetrical
S shapes into the moss, marking the Earth
with the only sound they know.
Maybe this is how I move too.
Maybe the way that I move through the world
says something about how I live. Maybe
you move this way too. Maybe me and you move
like screams over who drove up the phone bill.
What would it look like to move like the low
moans of a drunken Sunday afternoon? Like nervous
throat-clearing over a dinner that I’ve put too much
of myself into so that bitterness is all you taste?
Maybe the way that my joints roll looks like the small,
choked sounds that I make when I cry over how long
it’s been since we’ve had sex, and I didn’t pretend
I was under the weight of another body.
Or maybe the movements are more subtle,
like the way we fill our lungs or blink, or maybe
I’m still a little bit drunk because it’s Monday
morning. I’m sitting naked under my bathrobe
watching you pack your lunch in the dark
that comes in through the windows and crowds
everything. You’re going deep underground
to chip away at the black walls inside the Earth.
I notice how your hands move sad, slow and heavy.
Your fingers move tired as they fold slices of bologna
the same way that I fold towels. When you kiss me goodbye
our mouths come together like magnets with the same
polarizations. When they won’t fit, we force them into place.