You heard things I never told him, sex dreams and daydreams
that never work out his body mass over mine how many
seconds would it take to flatten me no way out
all power in his arms his hips, you sat on the pool table
and told me in love you cede a part of yourself
I thumbed the pool cue, I told you she jumped she was pushed
how I grew and she did not, you spoke of two months
in Mexico City in my head they were sticky with sweat
the ex-exotic dancer I asked how do you change the world? you said
you look different from this angle on the pool table my
legs over the edge you said you’re comfortable with silence. I like that.
At five a.m. we warmed our hips against the radiator now close enough
to smell man on your breath we went out through the loading dock
into distilled night I wanted to say did you notice we only spoke in
pronouns? he, she, them, our lives we could have been anyone
roommate wanting drunk sex girl falling through stars a Mexican
ex-exotic dancer German hikers working night shifts at Mercedes a girl
in a mansion in Syria with chandeliers a forgotten matriarch
me or you over the dead sea sun beaming over the edge
the heat of God or just another he
to jump with the blackbird or grab a lance and become Don Quijote on his way.
Maybe one day you will learn to be a Dulcinea.
Maya Wahrman graduated from Princeton University's Department of History, with certificates in Creative Writing and Near Eastern Studies. She currently works at Princeton's Office of Religious Life on issues of faith and forced migration. She has had opinion pieces published in the English and Hebrew editions of Haaretz, and has had poetry published in The Copperfield Review, the Jewish Currents Poetry Anthology Urge,Sweet Tree Review, and Nassau Literary Review, with forthcoming publication in Fifth Wednesday Journal.