If I Were There

Mostly, I had to admit, I live in the subjunctive. –Rosmarie Waldrop

Possessive, today, of the I that belongs to you— my wet thighs in the guest room, your flat palm a back & forth— slow, rhythmic—pressed between them. Why say you’re leaving? Tomorrow, you will require the statue’s thighs visible from your window, walk down to the cemetery, make an exquisite fist for its legs. Two people can be meant for one another. And that’s all it means. Two statues can stare at each other’s lips through eternity. Is that what you want me to tell you? Here, the sand surrenders to my feet, the way our bodies indent themselves to the other in the dark. The man next to me reads a book—a map of America unfolded on his lap. He smiles, tells me: Good Morning— It’s 6pm, I don’t want to go home. I want to be unaccompanied, shadowless, in the warm night air.