I could sit still in a room with you
and never tell you how
I am anticipating
some sort of laceration
in the lining of my stomach.
I don't know what it means,
but it is there, when we talk
I get a pain inside
a twisting, like dread
no matter what the subject.

I took your name off the speed dial
because I hadn't called
in so long, and because
your name stared me down;
as if it was a question mark,
and I am too tired
of looking for the answer
to that question; and I am too ill
from thinking you have surrendered
any interest in the answer.

But if it makes you feel better
I write poems for you, sometimes
and when I am not, I write
inane art criticism.
At the very least, be grateful
you aren't responsible
for that.


-e.




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