Issue 108, Fall 1988
Reflected horribly in the grand piano,
the sky is offered up as your accompanist.
You pick out a melody with one hand,
sweating and waiting, while
the apartment stays unremittingly grey.
When she walks in through the half-open door
(an identical door can be glimpsed behind)
she seems to bring color with her.
Now you begin the dialogue of murmured threats
and nonsequiturs, and stare each other down.
The blinds throw satisfying stripes along a wall,
movements of sunlight litter the carpet,
and everywhere are the sweet gleams of
her earrings, your shared wineglass, a gun.
As you fall to kissing, twisting damply
in your sweaters, your own face
is smeared in a rictus of fear:
you’re doomed if she speaks your name.