The Parts

His fingers are sunk

in his shirt collar

loosening the tie to get air,

rejection is heating the room

and he is certain of one job:

predicting when to leave

on his own terms.

He scans cadence and inflection,

he picks the seams of movement

to sew himself in where he fits

neatly on the edge 

of participation.

I asked, what if you set down

this burden?

He said, I would be looking,

instead, for all the ways I am loved.

She is dust in the corner of the room

folded into herself

to be less than a body,

so that what is aside enlarges

at least by perspective.

Safety is in their shadow,

constricting the boundaries of living

to a dark outline

drawn by arcs of light

and valleys of blackness.

She dances to stay in these lines,

certain of this one job:

don’t be seen.

I asked, what if you set down

this burden?

She said, I would stand up.