the curled hollow of my hip
in the shape of your hand
hold me there
time runs away from us
novel tucked in his armpit
The Secret History
by Donna Tartt
where is she?
I think, "Where am I?"
not myself
when I am in your company
through the windows
in your little kitchen
there are you
and your laughing friends
bruised grass reaching
where you lay
"I could cut myself
right here,"
is what I think
apricot jam butterknife
in the curl of my palm
waiting
breathing quietly
it is a knife, but it could be
other things
I am a girl
but I could be other things:
the hungry hollowness
of my hips
and the shape of your hand
curled into the grass
your friends
laughing
always
there isn't a sad moment
we are desperately satisfied
I am wanting
but this is my flaw
isn't it?
that when we are reduced to ourselves,
still
I am sitting
in your little kitchen
and through the window
you are the grass
bruised and reaching