I pluck the forked twig
from her potted rubber plant's
soil and thrust it
into my aloe's earth
hoping it'll persuade
its growth back to center
where we all strive
to be
unsure of whether
or not
what she used
to prop the former
will help heal the latter
but it's important
to come off as being whole
when you're trying
to help fix
what's broken.
What it sometimes
means to be
a friend
to the friendless:
weaponized sex
for strategic advantage.
The cigarette
ruined the photo.
The rest of it ruined
the rest of me.
I need you to leave
because I don't want you
to hear it.
My head rests on his shoulder
in the Sunday stillness
of his bedroom.
I stroke his broad chest
back and forth
like the tide of the river
he's always lived along
waded into
and may or may not
have returned from
depending on who's asked.
If my hand stops moving
he'll assume I don't care
so my fingertips skate
across skin and hair.
I make the mistake
of stopping
and he shifts
half-an-inch.
"Sorry," I say.
"For what?" he asks
without opening his eyes.
"I'm not him,"
but in saying so
he's more "him"
than he would have been
in silence.
He swims in my stomach
until we both nod off
temporarily distracted.
What wounds to bear.
Between measurements
and cuts
at one of
our many vices
he blurts
what he shouldn't
with me
as his only witness.
I remind him
of his transgression
as only
a brother can.
"I'm an asshole,
but I'm your asshole,"
he reminds me
in the same way.
Together, as always
we throw rocks
from the shore
at an island.
Few want the truth
partner
(as my newly departed
uncle used to call me
a la spaghetti Western)
but you ain't
the only one
who bunches up your blanket
at night
and tosses an arm over it
pretending that it's someone
who's worth a walk through coals
though a captain should know
survivor's guilt be damned
that loose lips
sink ships
with strange ejaculations.
The garbage can stank
like meat juice on styrofoam
so I took it for a walk
to the dumpster behind my building.
After chucking the trash
I swung by my truck
in the adjacent parking lot.
Half in the bag
I asked the guy
who's living in his car
if he's living in his car.
"Nah, man."
"Need anything?"
"Nah, man.
I appreciate you."
I finished my smoke
and walked upstairs
to my lonesome luxuries.
We'd both reached a point
where it didn't make sense
to hide it.
Afterwards
she rubs his bare chest
like it's a brass lamp
with a genie inside
though no wishes will be granted
to either party.
The smell of her perfume's reminiscent
of the purple pew upholstery
in a Southern Baptist church
sending his mind
to a highway rest stop in Maine
four years ago.
He'd scratched his face
there in the bustling lobby
and his right hand
which had ridden a perfect thigh
in the passenger seat for hours
had the lingering scent
of elderly black women
in a state he'd never visited
and had never wanted to.
He'd finished draining himself
in front of foreign porcelain
alongside a dozen strangers
whom, Lord willing, he'd never see again
among poorly tiled walls and floors
or even the Pearly Gates
and was staring blankly
at undesirable food franchise logos
barely appetizing, in neon or not
when a familiar face appeared
within a crowd of other women
emerging from their corner
of the summer vacation ring.
There it was
her countenance
like the full moon
that keeps him awake these days
ready to get back in the car together
and share a bag of Skittles
he'd bought from a vending machine
more friendly than a teenager
in a greasy polo shirt
while waiting on
what he thought
was the rest of his existence
Bar Harbor merely one destination
of many for decades--
"'til death do you part."
"Can we go again?"
"Maybe," he mumbles
his mind nine hours northeast.
She continues to paw
the urn that is his ribcage
not feeling the ashes within
and attempts years too late
to light another match.
