Tautology
The tickets in your breast pocket rest on
a pair of tickets and they’ve been punched
already. There is no train. That’s your flickering smile
in the copy room as the machine runs off
your poem, then another. What turns on
your turntable isn’t your records.
It’s your last year. It’s the holster for your knife
and it’s your knife. We were in love
when you needed a place to sleep
and I had washed off my face. We were in love
when you were in love and my car alarm
went quiet. You opened my door
with both hands, so I nodded back
at your bandaged wrists. When I hung
the lace curtains, you took me to the fair. We heard
the band. We saw the girls on stilts; they were shaped
like themselves. I could count
all your bones and then count all your bones.
I could take off my dress. Your dressings
could be cut with that knife. Because I was your girl
I was never your girl.
