He wants attention paid. His talent is to outrage.
His girlfriend, talking, didn’t see the stop coming,
was smacked against the windshield.

Split-faced, she now is the conversation, always parry
and riposte for herself: no need to speak to him further.

Each of his fingertips is a spade, flat and broad.
Made for digging. He doesn’t dig for anything,
just lets those soft fingers hold the wheel.

He once drove on ginger cobblestone streets
to the collapsed piers, me jouncing closer block by block.

We crawled under the fence and hiked up crooked plates
of broken concrete jetty. The Statue of Liberty
pointed left to the Verrazano. We looked, didn’t speak.

Vowels drop out of his mouth like stones.
But his feet—they are the palest, tenderest things.

Siân Killingsworth is a writer living in Northern California who holds an MFA from The New School. Siân’s work has been published in journals such as The Oakland Review, the Columbia Poetry Review, and Mudfish.

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