i put air into my fists

and ask her, "how do you tell stories?"

she is not here.

my back is to the carpet, to the floor,

eyes given to ceiling, i ask 

her

cold fingertips press into the

heart of the matter 

this is not starry night, this is not quiet evening,

this is air conditioning in the Fall

spurts of my mother's snores

my back to carpet, my cold toes, fingertips

this is the day accompanying the dream,

but the dream is not beautiful, trimmed at the edges,

the dream is a dream of my own voice

telling more than asking

so i say to her,

"in repentance of our lies

in humility of our smallness

when our words, innocuous poems

fall like daggers on someone's skin,

when our products of aesthetic

are obscuring palms on our own eyes,

our stories refusals of sight,

finding out that the euphoria of

explanation 

meets distant eyes, scorned and wasted,

knowing all of this;

that is how you write stories."

she is not here,

she does not say,

my truth remains

solitary.