In which we say, “Hello.”

There are many things my lips want to say to you: oily, drowsy vowels over flowers and tepid woodbines. There are half-words I keep hidden underneath my tongue, waiting for the spring or the right amount of static on the telephone line. You and I stay quiet, as if we have transgressed some imaginary number of allotted words.

I wait for the break; it comes before the dial tone. Your voice says it in a slow and deeply perfect tone. I hear the ruffling on my end. Water beads inside my throat. My breath speaks before I do.

"Eat the pomegranate," you say.

The Empathic and the Erudite

"This is when I ask you not to fall in love with anyone else," you say. My hands do not move when your lips have closed. My voice says, “But how could I do that?”

I sit across from you: a little bee, a girl folding her hands. Such knitted slim wrists.

We are both scared, two tepid bodies whose mouths water at the first cut of sticky peaches. You are not afraid to speak, but you do not draw the first breath. This girl and I are not in the business of trading alibis. I return to the peaches and think about how my palm should be on top of her thigh. I put it there.

"Don't worry,” I say. “I adore you too much."

You smile, and for a second, your nails press too hard into my skin. Your eyelashes are curled, the corners of your mouth twirling precisely. I slice the fruit and put a wanton piece up to your lips.

On A Search for Alibis

It's like leaving an ad in the classifieds, or the personals. Money and love are the thing these days, and still not a soul responds. A man with careful hands waits; so many telephones to be left ringing. This man, meticulous and rational, but easily dismayed at the turn of a wrist. He listens to the secretarial girl—pencil skirt, half written notebook, and all.

Trains will come and go, dogs will yap, and shoes will scrape against the bitter pavement. And the rest of the world will turn into night.