What You Want
not only to mourn for yourself,
but to wring my mourning from me,
my slab of face that steals into bed
with dawn and no longer calls after you.
I wake with your head
pitted in my belly,
your hands on my ribcage
as if to hold me forever
beneath your grieving mouth.
But when I touch your hair,
you pluck yourself from my center
and leave for work, locking the door
behind you with such resolution
I cry till each rib slides up my throat.
In the hours of your absence
the ribs I pull from my mouth are yours.
I wash them with our dishes,
finding etched on each,
like the maker's stamps
beneath our bowls and plates,
your insistent claim: mine.
What You Want
by Nashira Dernesch
NOTES:
Appeared in the chapbook,
It's no
secret you'll feel better
May 2007.