Friday, February 1, 2013

There Would Still Be Dust


There would still be dust in the carpet
if you loved me, little fibers
and disremembered things
clinging together, taking cover in the teeth

and hairs of every rug.
And I would still have to hire a machine
to suck them up, or enlist the strength of my arms
and a thick stick, like people used to do,

to force them out. There would still be crumbs
in the dark corners of the kitchen’s counters
like eyes awoken full of sleep
begging to be cleaned. I would have to wipe the mirrors
of water’s ugly silhouette, and of fingerprints,
like I always do
and should
and will. If you loved me

my left knee would still click when it bends
and sweat would still dry in the crooks of my arms
and my lips would still crack in the sun
and my heart would still ache.