Laura Dixon

In your bed, I told you without laughing
there are dozens of reasons the Iliad makes me weep.

With desire comes less freedom to limp away.

Like a wrapped box nested inside an opened box,
ribbon waiting to be undone, again.

A balloon tied to a fencepost.

You were moved by my empathy, like a reed that bends
to the minnow's weight, lets it brush over
before righting itself.

Pillows piled like battlements, a glass overturned
on the nightstand, water running down. You studied me
like a gravestone, a constellation.

You would not have noticed my progress
if I did not stop to say
my pockets are heavy and you can be stubborn
as a keyhole in the dark.

Nothing connects.
An eye at seven angles
shifts its misdirected light.
All at once we forget to hold our breath.
Love can be inventive,
but it does not often yield a plum.
It's like I said: what we have can vanish
even pressed between your thumbs.
You never give up hope
until the bread is molding
below a roof full of holes
and the dog gets lost on vacation.

When did our path disintegrate?
It's a dead lake we swim in anyway.
Whatever did not blow away last fall
will still be here come spring.
A familiar mess of rotting leaves and sun.
The last place one would expect to find
the noon chimes that held us at attention
through September.

You will always be the last to pray for rain,
the husk of a scarecrow
some bankrupt farmer left behind.

You will not recognize my exit.