So this is how it’s done: I watch her

“If those wounds dry up, the words die with them.”
— Stephen King


So this is how it’s done: I watch her
fingers clutch at the scissors, bloody
from the one long slice to open up the fish,
the many pluckings to get rid of the bones.

She is quick and it looks painless
but then again
the fish won’t feel it,

The blood has long drained and the stains
on her hands, on the blades
could have come from any number,
any source--

I imagine it would take her as long to finish
this one, as it would me
to fork up a slice of the same fish—
to chew hesitantly, my tongue still
feeling around for the bones
she might have left behind,
to catch them with my teeth
push them out between my lips
and catch them with my fingers,

Wipe them on the side of my plate
before they could catch at my throat--

I pay her the extra ten to do this
I can afford it
and I don’t have the time.

***

No really, I don't have the time.
My watch says it's 9:47
too early for sleep, but too late for the coffee
I want, especially. At the back of my mind,
I have to wake up at 4:30.

Playing 'round and 'round my head
Please call me baby
but I have left my phone

At the house I couldn't stand
it anymore, so I took a walk.
I wished to God it would rain
but it never does, not like in the movies

or in the songs. It does in this one, because
We do crazy things when we're wounded, he sings
and I would've liked to cry
but I could never do that
in public, especially.
Except when it doesn't mean anything
and I would like it to mean

something. Like the one time
on the road and everyone's phone rang
except mine
other people looking for other people
and I wished to God for a phone call
even the one I didn't want

because I wanted to cry
and I wanted it to mean something
to be able to say,
So this is how it feels like
I wanted a witness.

Not others' but mine
captured like in the movies,
or in the songs. Not life
like taking a walk, buying that coffee
then coming home
to wait--It is one in the morning now--
to sleep.

***

She sleeps with her mouth open,
and I watch her
like she has something to say
I wait for it

But she never does, she's not one to talk
in her sleep or awake,
even then she is quiet

I have tried to decipher
the silences like overcast skies
or her bright talk when she does
the sudden movement of clouds
to let the sun through

Her moods not like the weather:
thunderstorms make her happy
or at least I think so
watching her

Pressed against the windows
mouth again open--
the fog of her breath on the glass
appear, disappear in rhythm
like the catch
and release of a heart.