Then she said it wasn’t an interest of hers much anymore, anyway;
That she was withdrawn from the idea entirely.
And after this brief, liberating sabbatical to foreign quarries,
the plunge back into hot springs
and boiling summers
scarred her feet.
And after that cold lonely New York subway car ride through July and August
while clammy sweat glazed the backs of those
There I am.
She folds up the photo of the man on the tracks they all watched the subway car
smash on repeat,
My brain in a thousand pieces,
Unable to reclaim any cohesive cognition
Because I know why it happened
Despite what she says.
It wasn’t an interest of hers much anymore, anyway.
She won’t say why she needed a vacation
Because she knows there’s nothing I can do about it.
Despite perjuring fakers
In transit to foreign quarries
or subway car lights
Staring into my face unapologetically.
I just keep standing on the tracks.
If I don’t,
I’ll take one ticket to Gomorrah, please.
I hear it’s exciting there
Like sex with a stranger.