You said your favorite song was by The Miracles.
I had just seen the whites of your eyes, upturned, wanton:
two filmy pearls, encased in skin.
I feel impressionable and soft, an old fruit. Tears roll
down the sides of my face then trickle through
my hair like lice. Lying on my back feels
unnatural, but since we are crying here together
in a gutted room with one lamp, and one soft cactus,
the position fits.
Soon you will leave, and I’ll strip the bed clean.
I will try to view this as something contained,
rather than unfinished. Unlike you, I find
the concept of cloture—of an end note—tranquilizing.
When I pack the bedding away,
it puffs out of the trunk in a way that hurts.
Acceptance may mean retroactively admitting
it wasn’t love, but a lovely sound.
Elena Robidoux is a writer of prose poetry and creative nonfiction from Boston. Her work has been featured in Wu-Wei Fashion Mag, Potluck Magazine, theEEEL, Little River, Alien Mouth and Jerkpoet, among others. Her chapbook, Tragic Kingdom is forthcoming (Saucepot Publishing, 2016).