alone your eyes are not dim,
i don’t see the dreams of Cadillacs
or the rumors of boy-hopping
under your belt: i wait to see
a fall apart—together—a way to
blend here with now, there
underneath it all i see darkness.
over it i feel convulsions in my elbows.
i am not alone. i am waiting for
a bottle of wine, a moment when
it is okay to pop the cork
and indulge; you say
there is no “wrong time”:
only every time (except now).
what remains when i hear stories
of mothers and siblings?
how about your father? who keeps
such late hours like you always do?
i remember all of these. i remember every
flick of your tongue into the air
more than i remember my own name.