In the glaze of evening, more air between us
than talk. I choose raspberry tea, pour deep pink
into a glass cup, ask questions about whatever she speaks of.
I push the air of conversation back to her,
an invisible volley that people love. Smudged figures wander
the background in not-yet twilight.
Then she willfully unhears me,
talks as if my voice does not reach her ears. And then again.
Now I speak as if from an amulet resting on the sternum of a
stranger. Uncharacteristic. Unrequited.
Whether jeweled or ragged, my unheard talk untethers me.
The “un” prefix soothes me, breathes an erasure that stories
me, splits the seed of not yet deep in the pocket of waiting.
Locket. Un-lock it. See what I mean?
