Clothesline
My head is hot. Too sick to move,
drinking broth out of pink mugs.
The only man I ever loved
told me to stop throwing myself
a pity party. Once, I saw a Hopper painting
of a woman in a chartreuse dress
looking like she sure was sorry
for herself & I thought it was beautiful,
the way wind in an empty room is. Perhaps because
I’ve always been a voyeurer the way bike tires are,
or dishwashers, or clotheslines. I like to be close
to the worst parts of someone, to the soles
of their shoes. We can thank everyone
who taught me the wrong thing about love, but god
how I look forward to your voice in the dark.
Since I got sick, you call every night.
I feel like I’ve died or just finally found the end
of being so young all the time. You tell me
about your broken car and sometimes I can
hear your hands bracing a cool, porcelain sink
or warm water as you spit it down the drain.
I sleep on my stomach, like a phone curled into
its receiver. Usually, you ignore me for months.
I’ve so enjoyed the pain in my head, lately,
even my split lips or the dryness of my face.
Once I called you heartless, but I’m still not sure.
When I wake up because of the pain in my body,
I think of all the muted paintings of women alone
in the dark. Ask anyone. It is easy enough
to get used to being looked at.