Page-Turning as a Declaration of Love
Because we seldom use our words,
unmoored and can’t relate,
our hands have all the eloquence of
different languages symphonizing.
The piano is an enclave, we sit at its
threshold fiddling the waterkeys;
why and when did I leave you? I can’t
keep my eyes off the teeming surfaces.
You, King Salmon, and I the torrid fishwife;
I would sell you, but I fear
your high-priced idiosyncrasies.
And we seldom use our words,
not to wrangle, no longer to haggle.
When I left you? When you swore
you could not trust me. And yet: when
I step into bodies of water,
Fishes, all in a tizzy, gather around me.
I read you reading, flick the pages
like my hands belong to you, and I
know you are the liar: I don’t
trust you, another myth under half-duress.
Knowing the floorboards of
a house that groans takes time,
and in you, you’ve allowed me
endless wanderings. I may again
ask for something high-priced,
that says I love you more than
love itself, and carry no shame
to barter it. Don’t we both make
music beautiful again?
you and your red wine lips
sated on my blood
you can have my guts and all my
salty roe too
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 56 | Fall/Winter 2020