Who Gets the Silverware?

A decade on, you make a fuss at finding me—an expression a slide

rule couldn’t read. I am thawing;                  spilling every              which way.

Flip, you say, gripping my forearm with new faith.

             You usedn’t touch things. Not me.

                                                     Not a sister.

                                                     Not a rudder.

The Magic Show would be freed from its cellophane skin

              by your will alone. I tried to hurry the process once

               —you remember—

               we weren’t really children                       you warned:

                          Get behind the fourth wall and stay there.

Now, I see your hands. One too many diamonds

devalues all of the diamonds.

I could set a table on your life. No wine

would topple and stain.

Yes         the weight of a body can help 1 feel

lifted      but—too—it can turn 1

              into a bird-like thing hither-

              thithering the self away

              space all arsoned and malicious

              and youth then is given over.

              By not seeing 1 self in the glass ...

Looking in the right places for wrong things—

                                       in the same calm repetitious uncitylike places

                                       for things unownable. Legroom

                                       to cram with appendages. The leaves

along your drive are oil-slick. A car service is overdue.

Garden dewdense with crabgrass kinked bittercress poor man’s mustard swallowwort unctuous dandelions

                                                                                             to piss a paddling pool full to the brim.

I am heartened by all that neglect.

You correct me:              We are not truly invested in the lawn.

I don’t tell you            lest I am interrupted by a child I’ve never met

                                  lest they look familiar and need carrying to the toilet

             lead is heavier than silver but lighter than gold.

             What is yours? What did you plan to own?

                                      Books can be reduced to weatherproof icons on a screen,

                                      photographs to thumbprints, a child to a turkey baster, a principle

                                      to a charity donation.

This new country           this land of We

or else                             is very humid.

                                       My stressed husband left the tap gushing all day,

                                        the dote. We were at work, the kids were at crèche.    It was just

                                          too much. We came home to a swimming pool—      another private ocean

                                                                                                                          to love him across.

You place in my arms a damp crimped Yellow Pages

weighing of an infant        for a mooring. There are all sorts of numbers to sum.

None of you touches me—          not your belly, not your gaze, hot water bottle breast.

You go to the kitchen. To the sound of crying.

1 is the total percentage of water that has been lost by the time a person feels thirsty.

I say naught for the Velcro sound of my tongue. Leave again, finally, click the lifebuoy icon.

My data will be anonymized, though DNA is unanonymizable.

It is statistically likely that some 1 would love me and I am letting them

                                                                                                          down.