Mudslide
Do you think
That I can’t see
The wrappers of chewable wax
Ballooning shallow pockets
The half-soiled tissue bombs
Making a vigil of the bed
The 23-hour darkness
Confirming that indeed it is a coffin
And indeed that smell is something rotting
Except I wasn’t supposed to be in it
Do you think
That I can’t hear
Every past lover testimonial
Offered up in precarious trade for awe
The chorus of triple negatives
Ringing out over Time Together
The debilitating silence
You task as stand-in for empathy
Along with nearing sleep and far-off culture
There will always be a barrier
Do you think
That I can’t feel
Each smothering distraction
That would make apology sorry
The retractable hand
That tells me it’s gone numb
The matching makeshift wall
Holding up mounds of dirt
Until, in stillness, falls the rain
We never prepared for a mudslide
