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The man who secures himself inside me

August 27, 2015

Like a first time homeowner, key jangling and body moving through the stud-wall frame, imprinting the spaces with domestic prospects –

Grabbing at hair – a master bedroom, tongue in ear – a dining room for the family he imagines, with both hands to steer the wings of my hips – a garage for the car,

And all the accessories we outgrow, but won’t let go of; myself, the woman, the wife in his pipe-dream, the floor plan he selected for permanent residency,

I wave him across the finish line for the hundredth time; I listen for a groan from the subfloor as this new house adjusts to his footsteps down the hallway –

I take the glass of water from him with a desiccated kiss. It isn’t mystery that holds a house together, but exactness of calculation rendered by the grain of wood –

I bear everything beneath these joists, support beams and this foundation, plumb down into the fault line of the earth beyond retrofitting or indemnity;

Each night he locks the door and shuts the curtains. I don’t tell him when I feel the trembling; he cannot feel it, that’s how the friction began –

The bed swallows us and I wait silently for the slow tossing that will turn the walls into waves.

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