~ this merging and unmerging ~

“Why is the Bathhouse such a good place for

thinking?” she asks without wanting an

answer. (For unexpected intimacies, hair brushing low across

his collarbone as I lean against him, not asking or explaining, watching

our bodies meet in space empty of words – “such a good,”

I finish the question – she becomes I

more and more often lately).

The roof is half on now, red doors open onto a porch under construction

and a mulberry tree dropping burnt yellow leaves – summer night

wafting in as I brush my hair, look away from her, outside,

towards the rising

full moon, but feel her profile, slender,

nestled against my eyes as she stands before the mirror pulling

her brown hair away from her face – we’ve grown our hair long

together this year – she, laughing at me for combing my unruly curls

one hundred strokes every evening, and I, envious of her smooth

straightness. (As though

we have always known each other, or we are

strangers, having sat without speaking – my cheek on the plush of his down

jacket, his arm around my waist – past-midnight, last ones remaining at

the end of a party.) I could also be quietly

familiar, as if always – but she knows how to leave

sooner. I am on my sixtieth stroke when she says goodnight, and I stay

after she goes to bed, unwilling to

say goodbye though she tells me we may not meet again. Digging deeper,

into other people’s silence – the rectangles framed for windows yet

unplaced. Sometimes I wake up alone,

the weight of his arm still around my hips.