NPR

NPR



CL Bledsoe



She and I have forgotten the angles of each
other's bodies, the shock of rough skin rubbing
across soft. We fill this forgetting with NPR,
bad movies, plans while we make dinner in our
tight kitchen, careful not to brush against
each other in case we find the place

we haven't been to in so long has changed,
everything become smaller, larger,
strange. This place—she—doesn't remember me,
just as I don't remember her.

Forays have been made, like drunken road trips
to childhood hangouts. We've fumbled;
we've tried to relearn. Forgiveness has been
given, annoyance taken; we have grown into
something else, something soft, cool, bearable.

It's good to listen, to know things from
a soft voice. It's good not to hear the screech
of commercials, to keep abreast of obscure events
we'll never care about the way we worry over
that void. This is adulthood. This is what
we've worked towards.

One night I will wake to the sound of plastic
shattering, run into the kitchen to find her
burying an axe in the voice of Terry Gross;
I've dreamed this three nights in a row.
Each morning, I wake refreshed, go into
the kitchen, and click on the morning noise
while I make oatmeal and tea. This is better
than the dream I used to have about a snake
with a triangle head rising
from between her legs, while I screamed,
"Get backon the road, never mind the rocks;
I'll distract it while you run!"

In the evenings, we meet for dinner, don't
talk about our days. In the evenings,
we listen, shake our heads in a purposeless way
when it seems appropriate. She leaves dishes
in the sink, covering the counter.
I'll lie in bed,later, thinking about them.
When I wake, I'll get to them while my tea boils.
The dishwasher's almost full. That's another week,
gone, a new one, starting. I'll think of this
and laundry, ironing that needs doing.
What she thinks, I don't know.
Work tomorrow and what must be done?

She is a dent beside me. Most nights,
I forget she's there.



C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on Tipton Poetry Journal