You’ve met me halfway
between the door to our bedroom
& the other I doubt
is real only because you
are always gesturing: there it is.
As if getting to an exit
is as simple as its existence;
as if your body, real or imagined,
does not make a door
a taunt you can point to
but not touch. You touch me
like I’m a door
that won’t open. The first fight
ended here, too: my back to the wall
& your body keeping it
there, every hand & mouth
an act of contrition in an argument
I was sure I’d misheard
until you were kneeling
to beg me, Stay. Only then
did I understand yours
was a language of secret
orders & mine a language
of hidden sounds
you thought you had
to teach me yourself. Tonight
my shoulders relax
into the dimples they make
in the drywall, the pair of them joining
the others in repetition
down the hallway, a stampede
through snow. Look at the tracks
they’ve left, all the animals
my body didn’t mean to be.
Tonight there is no feast. Tonight
you are only sorry
g-d’s name is the one I choose
to say aloud when you touch me
like you believe
you could put a door anywhere
if you just push hard enough; like if I
wasn’t so unreasonable
I could just accommodate
myself; like if it’s so hard, Why don’t you
just leave: there it is.
There I am: opening a door
in a wall with a body I should want
to exit. You touch me
like I’m an animal that needs
correcting. You touch me like it’s for
my own good.
And wasn’t this my request?
Didn’t I ask you to speak to me
only with your hands?