In Bed on 63rd Street

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.