Lynn Marie Houston brings us one man’s moment of vulnerability and one woman’s responding compassion.
—
The House After She’s Gone
We drink red wine on milk crates.
Their waffle marks brand us
through our jeans.
No one departs unscathed.
Not him, not the ex, not me.
Once we’re numb and flushed,
the house seems larger.
It’s loneliness larger.
And we’re desperate
for nakedness,
for not needing words.
But it’s a kind of pillow talk,
his grief, as he rests his arm
behind the soft spot of my skull.
I close my eyes to turn
toward his face and nestle
in his shoulder’s crook.
It’s the only pillow talk I know.
***
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