In answer to your question,
a reluctant sigh, a halting monologue
I feel unheard and the tears… The tears
are already out of my eyes now rolling slowly
over the apex of each cheekbone, two lone
tears starting down, the left one gaining on the right
one, they pause and hang a moment in suspended
animation on the downside of the curve to the hollow
of my cheek unsure whether to stay on course all the way
to my ears or release their precarious hold by splashing
off breaking free of suction toward their intended route
plummeting down, down a glorious free fall no
heroes no jackknife toes pointed heads tucked under each salty
diver arches: does she see her mistake does
she shudder or falter before a belly flop on my pillow
case one small spot not even a puddle to mark her lovely
journey
Published in Recursive Angel
My Monastery is a Sofa 