Wrapped Around Your Finger
Somewhere in the front of a notebook once
by Chloe Meakin
“his fingers only wrap around the parts of me he needs”
But if I wrote that as a poem,
I would have to paint a white stripe over the lie of that line,
Wouldn’t I? Put my fingers in my ears and sing.
If I closed my eyes the neon of my eyelids hide some horrors, honey.
All day they flicker there like REM.
I’m not talking in my sleep. I don’t sleep.
I’m stark awake, my fingers spread like singers’ fingers on the sheets.
I’m not lying, either. I haven’t told a soul. I’m way too cool.
How could I ever write the poem of how it doesn’t feel to be with you?
I won’t write that poem. I write no poems. Hush. That’s my marriage.
Only me, fingers paddling on your fingers, talks, to me.
To only me. Don’t worry.
My lips are tightly wrapped around the fat muscle of that pact.
My fat tongue won’t wiggle out a furtive spurting of those words.
My eyes won’t give away the narrow eyes of your whispering face. Yes.
What words? There’s no words. I don’t hear words and I wrote nothing.
No slow slip from lip to pen to poem to be lapped and slapped and written here.
The paper this is printed on won’t last.
I’ll eat it, and I’ll swallow it, or I’ll hold it in my mouth.
I know. I understand. You’d have to want to lose it all to come to me,
But still you come to me, digging grave-holes with your digging fingers.
Ripping lace holes and making faces, happy and unhappy.
And I am unhappy, I am unhappy.
All I hear in all your gasps are that dark year’s Las Vegas lies
And in all your groans you change and grow into everything I never wrote.
It’s your wedding ring that’s wrapped around my silent throat.
The wedding ring you’ve never worn around your finger.