Proximity Politics

You dance and there is that in me
Which wants to stem your steps, I’m sorry
That your legs never find the roots they seek
Stretched out on the carpet like your spine
Won’t speak to them anymore—
Perhaps the blankets you fold between the floor
And your tiny cotton shorts block the water
They need to grow, like the body you won’t feed,

And perhaps I only liked your music for a day
Or two, but I’ll mute
And you’ll blare
And we won’t apologize.

I’ve stolen your pen.

I’ll keep draining your detergent
Into the clothes that I never quite get
All folded, politely stacked,

And you read my books
Without asking, leaving them
Splayed on the rugs you hate
Or comrades sentinel
Behind the mess on my desk.

When I spoke to you of Jesus, sleeping,
I wonder what you said.

I wonder also what you’re running from
On a Wednesday morning at three
With your blankets flat

But you’re not sorry,

And I only asked once,

And we won’t apologize.