Issue 5, Winter 2008

 

tethered between us
by Joshua Young

he loves to show his teeth when he fakes
a smile, like a briefcase full of soap—
useless for months at a time
 
he says, “I am tired,” to break the air
as if there’s something between, tethered, damp
 
his eyes rattle behind his reading glasses
as he explains his work-day
I can picture him            there
 
at this desk, shouldering a phone, speaking
in fragments, cut by the voice on the end
 
the fridge-buzz brings me back,
as he merges   to his thin apartment
walls, and lovers’ trills, as they bump
 
into each other—that’s what he says:
“…as they bump into each other.”
 
as if they’re in there, wandering
in the pitch  searching for each
other’s skin clumsy and young
 
I can smell the commute on my fingers
left from smoking and stubbing
 
our tongues, rank with coffee and weed
we smoked in the fluorescent tint
of his bathroom where he keeps his box—
 

wooden and scarred from years of hiding condoms
after the youngest was born

our work-day ties have loosened their chokes
casual and lazy, they hang
from our necks like children in maple trees