Go

I can’t stop cleaning house.
Dirty socks and empty cups are
everywhere. We’re children without a mother.
Then there’s you, following me silently
with peace on your face.
It all disgusts me, but I don’t remember why.

I’ve long since stopped
playing the violin, but even now I stir my
wrist to a silver-tongued vibrato.
I work a picture frame, pencil, flashlight,
the bones beneath my other breathing wrist.
That song is steadily fading. Still, I try.

You stop me with a grasp from behind,
because I’m swinging my hips
a bit like a colt. When was the last time
I glanced at the stars without
tracing constellations?
The movie is still playing;
I tell my lips to rest. They do.

Today, I walk to the bus stop,
not pausing to sling the sleet from my hair.
I am pleading, as usual,
like the skeleton trees with their
last scraps of sanity.
But this time, I’m silent.

I stop short of being still.
The grace of doing and thrill of falling
are fantasy.  I throw a stick
to see the dogs tussle in the distance.
Fog is strung from the streetlamps, like lopsided
pearls. I exhale, and forget to ask why.