A Communal Space
On shallow evenings, your lover takes
to chafing dried oil off
old roasting trays,
scraping dirt lodged
like clay between floor tiles
with her pinky nail.
On all fours,
her joints click in the
rigor of her cleansing.
Your lover takes
to retying sneaker laces
for a proper loop,
over and under and knotted,
not right,
takes to stepping outside
and stepping back in—
the crickets too resonant,
they jeer at her emptiness.
A sectional half lit.
A foreign film on mute.
An album has ended.
A father’s voice needles the shallowness.
In her mind,
he nestles into his armchair,
scoffs at the hollow space
and recites bible stories
she knows by word.