Our Mansion

I would never burn my secret poems for the sake of being artistic.

What’s the use of destroying something artfully?

What’s the use of something no one can know?

You used to open small windows,

To emit fractional bits of dust and air, I assumed

I would sneak in while you were out to supper and rifle through your drawers,

And pick your suit pockets.

We’d gather around a candled table with cultured people and zone out during our prayers;

It’s strange how I’m always alone when I’m with you.

Love isn’t written in the dark, love isn’t written in virtual ink spills

Love isn’t written on your face but I look at it anyway,

And I think that says a lot.

I think I say a lot, I think I’ve said so much I’ve nearly forgotten it all,

I say less than I think, I think

Of the broken windows that were shoveled into spectacles, I think I see you there

I go through your things as you rifle the neighbors, I shuffle the chiffon curtains and they shove into lines, there

There my love, you’ve learned nothing is divine.

You’ve learned so much from the chalkboard at school

I erased you a few months ago but the children kept saying your name under their breath, through their necks

The ice cream man sang you through his window. the canaries stared you through their cages.

I couldn’t stand the fine hum.

The neighbors began to sing, or whistle, I shot

Down the stairs and the dinner guest was drinking vodka into its lullaby,

Singing an old war song, sawing away at memories

My mother played the violin early in life, my sister is waiting to be seen,

Truthfully I never thought I’d make it past sixteen.

The neighbors moved three years ago, that’s right

I decided the curtains were neat and ugly

You have new pens in your pockets and new ties to match

It’s a different fall, I’m a different you, somehow, love, don’t you see-

Everything has changed.

(But that doesn’t change anything)