No Matter the Wreckage

by Sarah Kay

There is nobody left in the water. The setting sun makes the ocean glow golden. I tuck my legs up. That summer, I learn how to be alone.

You are my favorite stick of dynamite. You are the opposite of a rubber band. There are so many things I would tell you if I thought that you would listen and so many more you would tell me if you believed I would understand.

Most days, waking is the hardest. But it is also when Poetry arrives— stands patiently outside the shower, places its hands on the mirror, wipes away the steam. And then there are days when sleeping is the hardest. The fight of muscle against world becomes so constant, that surrendering to slumber doesn’t promise nearly enough relief. These are the times when hands feel nothing but empty. These are the times when the ceiling fan is left off. When this heat becomes the only lover to hold, the only weight that feels familiar anymore.

How strange, that when you are away, I reach for my cell phone’s buzz as if it were your hand.

You can tell she is counting exit signs. You can tell she has left her shoes by the door, laces already tied. Leaving is an easy art to learn. But the advanced steps—the pirouettes and arabesques are difficult to master. This is how I disappear in pieces. This is how I leave while not moving from my seat. This is how I dance away. This is how I’m gone before you wake.

guess you could say I miss him if missing him means that sometimes I forget to brush twice a day.

I keep the light on, just in case.

I have forgotten what I was looking for. It doesn’t seem important. You brought me flowers. You made the bed. This is the widest I can stretch my arms. This is all I have right now.

Everyone needs a place. It shouldn’t be inside of someone else. —Richard Siken