i will never understand the science of that mistake
the word that turns potential to kinetic
the fingertip that sparks the momentum,
that makes taste an inevitability
- these terms will remain foreign,
their models, hollow.
i could, i suppose, appreciate beckett
as I read to you (sick in bed)
you would have your soup
and I, my coffee
but our comfort would be knowing
that we could run out of pages
and still, no one would come
or i might, one day, know virginia
as you manicure the lawn
and i watch you with glassy oven door eyes
we both wander why we had to go and lock that goddamn window in the 2nd floor study,
if too many mr. walshes had walked in and out of our lives,
if any evening should ever warrant a party
still
i’d like to be well-read on
the history of the curve of your back
the distance between my truth and yours
the places you go to when you refuse to look at me
yes… i would study these with fervor
so you see, when you cock your head
your eyes as concerned as they are patronizing
and you gather the balls to shape your lips into
“you get it?”
or
“you want it?”
i must summon the cold to shrug my shoulders,
to fume ambivalence
because frankly my dear, i’m not sure if i give a damn
(one way or another)
about being the mistress