Nothing’s the matter
with me. It’s just …
I don’t feel like talking to you.
Did I say I love you
to madness last Friday
when you were wet with rain,
hailing a cab and when not
getting one to stop, started cursing at
God and his taxi service?
Something about the way
you hugged your jacket, as if it were the love
letter you’d cherished and then lost.
I am sorry. I truly don’t
want to hear you speak today
about how the snow chills your bones
all the way to that red marrow.
I did dig a tropical chick
with a strange name on my tongue
and the scent of her sweat on my thigh.
But that was last Wednesday, so long ago.
Oh, come now. Broomsweeps and fish sticks!
You look like a lost key
a pineapple without its crown–
an orphan Annie a gang of werewolves chased for sport.
Surely, you didn’t think…
what I said on Thursday
I loved you last night but your voice this morning
burns like stomach acid;
your face a strange angulation,
your body a puzzle misfitted.
Maybe it’s true, yes
it’s true today,
that I do
not love you.