Blue Heat

She said, It’s the heat.
He didn’t even turn
to look at her. Three men
sat across the street on a crooked
stoop, collars and rolled shirt sleeves
gathering sweat. One pointed North.

She saw struggle
in the motion. The near violence
required to push an arm
through wet heat without loss
of meaning. The molasses
that kept Jim from turning.

Yes, she said again. Definitely
the heat. Her eyes traced the blue
along his veins from hand
to mid-forearm. She imagined
all things had grown thick
and dull over the years, not just

his blood bulging now in arthritic
rivers. All things. The slow
creep of brown into their bedroom
décor. The whetstones removed
from their neighbors’ how-you-doin
speech. The heat moved him no less

no more than her award-winning
country gravy. One thousand Sundays
spent elbows tucked carefully away
from the table. The loud chew
scrape, grind, chew. Cows
both of them. The eyes of cows.

Tongues like tobacco leaves.
The triangle across the street
grew wide and dissolved
into stews and steaks and sticky
children for the evening. She sighed.
A wet low. A hot rustle.

Her breath clung as a mask
to her face. No wind
to wish on, her lungs carried
the weight of the day. She took
his hand into hers and strummed
one vein under her pointing finger.

Like It Was a Game

The break room fruit bowl in mid-fall
is all apples and bruised pears. I’m here
for the chocolate and Amanda’s
lewd talk: how she lost on purpose
at naked Marco Polo, how her cherry-
red painted toes match her bra.
Today she’s saying beer on her
come 5:30 at the Pour House two blocks
down. I’m the only one who shows.

Amanda’s cigarette is tracing blossoms
in the air, the way they fall
from the still-green apple, the way
her gaze drops into her mug
when her story comes to cracked ribs,
how her long ago boyfriend drove her
to the hospital and lied to the scribbling
ballpoints. Bones do not break
into conversation as gently as we pretend.
I begin to unscramble the letters
on the back of a Coors coaster
and nod into her off-beat pauses.

At first he just
pinched me, like it was a game
on the insides of my thighs. I would
brush his hand
away but he acted
like I had slapped him
hard across the face. Sometimes
he’d leave purple marks
in the shape of flowers or
hearts. He’d say
‘That’s what your kind of fun makes.’

A dark and curly ponytail makes her
nauseous anymore. She’s given up
on the letter M and hates small talk.
Everyone made small talk
in emergeny rooms. They were treating her
for bicycle accidents. My reflection
raises an eyebrow at me
from her glass. She’s now switched
to water. I’m sticking with hard cider
and my coaster spells Better Luck Next Time.

At the back of the bar, we try bobbing
for apples. Damn things are too strong
for our teeth. Too buoyant to sink.
I am rooting for the man with a quirk
to his smile, a squint he can pass off
as winking. She warns me: The charming
ones will hurt you every time.

Outside, October melts into caramel
and burning leaves. I am homesick
for red horns and trick-or-treating, white wings
and the dark-eyed circles of ghouls, all the boys
slipping through my pores who kissed me
so gently. In dreams, she tosses
my yearnings to the pavement, makes me
wish I hadn’t spoken, compares me and my little
fistful of years to her own, bright,
bold and worn. If we grew strong
as ripened apples, could we beat the game?