|Jan/Feb 2017 Poetry|
© 2016 Elizabeth P. Glixman
In Bed on 63rd Street
Somewhere on 63rd Street is a beige house
where you lie awake in bed.
You've survived the night before,
turned your back and fled
from its abacus, your breasts bare
against the sheets, the cat covering
your legs. It's the usual scene
of someone drowning while perfectly still—
your eyes two raised fists,
the blooming skin of your shoulder
where you branded yourself,
the long scar of your stomach
retreating from my mouth.
Now you are almost a statue
incapable of breath, a monolith
horizontally displaced. The trench
of your spine curves away from me,
your fingers stroking each rib
through translucent skin. And someone else—
someone who isn't me, gets up and leaves.