Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget
falls drop by drop upon the heart,
until, in our own despair,
against our will,
through the awful grace of God.
I couldn’t care less about his art.
When his cello pulls me into a different space
I remember there were other strings between me
and the man who, for a while, decided
to ruin everything (though you only recognize disaster
after the fact), like reaching through a piano
to pluck the strings. Deliberate.
I dreamt of him with her: His sweat
on her breasts as he heaves and plays on her
like an easy sonata; underneath, she moans for more.
He keeps on giving just enough.
If I crawled between them, would they notice?
I’ll be cruel and tell the truth. He never said “love”
to either of us. He started a note
with a look – the slightest nod.