We Can Talk About the Weather

          After Monica Heisey

& the catastrophes & the way the wind has serrated the clothes

on the line. the way the sun melts & rises & spills over just to set,

our faces lined in light. just not the heartbreak. not the unused chopsticks

in the kitchen drawer or the half-peeled apple or the ways i learned how

to sleep falsely, my dreams turned mirages, an oasis in a desert. the camel

collapsing without something bright & sparkling to drink— last summer,

someone tried to feed him diamonds & it worked, only long enough

for the visions to turn real. here’s the truth: there’s no magic in silence.

just you & i & you & i over & over again. limits approaching & never touching

infinity. lips mouthing words in total quiet. i’m sorry i loved you

impermanently. nobody will listen if we argue in the parking lot or the

alcove or underneath the summer-baked laundry, but i already saw

the glass break, the line still putting sky into pieces. i know the tiles

above the kitchen sink were for the saint of forgiveness. still, i left.

because nobody said i had to be good. because i was too scared to

draw blood & leave a scar. because the forecast predicted

a monsoon, threatened a flood.