Mitchell Andrew David Untch

I am made of handles
in the hallway
the bedroom door
opened and closed.

I am made of dark spaces
holes in conversations
that my mother and father have
in the kitchen.

I am the smoke from her lips.
I curl through cracks in the window.
I am my father's exit strategy.

I am made of grass.
In the backyard,
air that fills my mouth.
I am the blank stars I write on.

I am made of my sister's hair.
I fall across her shoulder
down the small of her back.
I am her first pair of nylons.

I am the fabric on her skin,
falling open like a curtain.
I am the hand behind it.

I am made of school
and Mr. Conner's gym shorts.
I rub the sky with my clipboard
and dictate the way things are.

I am the way things are.
I am forty years old.
I am the book I am reading.
I am its ending.

After you'd gone
our bodies
uncoupled in the dark
I lay in bed
and started to think of things
that are halved
apples     pears    seeds
and the knives that separate them
I thought of doors
half open half closed
their wide
unexpected swings
into the middle of rooms
how they halve distances
I thought of windows
invisible seams
that separate interiors
from exteriors
half journeyed
and half way there
I thought of your mouth
in the same breath
the other half of the world
half a shell lying on the beach
its smooth abandoned
chambers
filled half way with sound
half of me listening
half of me not