Dint of Two Words

Three words: I miss you
compressed us
into two: I do
now only one: us.
The ritual is warm-
fisted. Marriage a
form of wordplay which
injures third parties.
Not that it matters
how I use people to
distract me from last
night’s bed. Not that
it matters how a crux
resists us if you listen
to the way we sit on
the patio. If you listen
to how we watch this
dialogue thin into dusk.
Not that we don’t rue
sizable things, but
regret is little. How
sparse and tiny each
syllable sounds beneath
a highway’s corpulent
roar. Not that we’re
waiting. Not even
explanations hang
together with so much
space between each word.
Us is a fact, but
we is an exclusive
pronoun, not that
it takes more than us
to enlarge. Not the
silver wedding band
that alters but the terms
we pack tight round
the flesh of us. The
words snug, secure,
safe for saying aloud.

Alina Stefanescu was born in Romania, raised in Alabama, and reared by the love-ghost of Tom Waits and Hannah Arendt. Her homeland is a speculative fiction. Currently, she lives in Tuscaloosa with her partner and and three children who don’t believe she was a finalist in the Black Warrior Review’s Poetry Contest or Fiction Southeast Editors’ Prize this year. Her syllables are forthcoming in Tower Journal, Cider Press Review, Lockjaw, PMS poemmemoirstory, and Kindred, among others. More online at http://alina_stefanescu.typepad.com/writing.

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