I am reading about my ex-boyfriend in my friend’s story. In it, he and she are lovers who meet in hotels whenever and wherever. His blue eyes are what give the fiction away.
Even the body, so impossibly tuned and tensioned:
all of us crimped, folded and thrumming just so, they say,
like a trillion trillion guitars or glass harmonicas, tiny
symhonies of sound—so why not metaphysics?
When they arrive I’ve crawled my way to the bathroom, peeled off my underwear, and, with the strength of a 155-pound Hercules who by now has lost half the blood in his body, heaved myself into the bathtub in an attempt to clean up.
In our hands, his life
amounted to vacant housing
taped off, his blood on blacktop
too dark to identify.
My mind’s packed with clouds, dark roads, endless water. Losing names, losing facts, like a half-filled sieve. And yet the mind’s not supposed to go. I point Nicole to the elevator, and we step in.