The Dialogue
I say, Some parts of me are like this—
and open his hand
Rain water funnels into the pink
Thin channels of water
branching out and then contracting
as if surface tension isn’t a thing at all
He says he doesn’t understand
how I made him this way
so porous
I did it to show you, I say
made us parallel and reflective
He says, I cannot accept this
He means to say my body
but the word has too much shape
doesn’t fit well between his teeth
He searches for answers
but he’s too distracted
by the bright flush of stars
dappling the mid-day sky
How odd today is, he says
dragging his fingertips against
the cotton of my overcoat
I tell him, No—
This isn’t what you are supposed to see
and make with the unbuttoning
Underneath is a stretch of land
white, winter land with a center of melt
He turns to walk away
I am not this too
Yes, I say, you are this too
The Dialogue II
She says, Some parts of me are like this—
She says this as she undresses
exposing herself to him in the dead of winter
in a dead field under a shocked sky
This is the scene of it
the time and place of her opening
She tries to show him through his hands
through mirroring
but even this miracle is too small
He fingers her overcoat
his last attempt at softness
but she is angry
No, she says, No—
and removes every stitch
un-sews herself at the middle
All that warm begins to spread
out from her center and all over
her white skin
And the boy leaves her there—
A girl standing naked in a field
holding her heart
Zoe Etkin is a Los Angeles based poet, student and educator. She is a recipient of the Beutner Award for Excellence in the Arts for her poetry. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Burning Word, Poetry South and Glyph.
