Twisted Conversations

Fragments of aching loneliness echoing down the hall,
when the only one who can comfort me is the one who won't,
when the song is right but I can't,
and my voice is clutted with words I'm forbidden to speak,
and my limbs are crippled with places forbidden to lie.

His voice down the vacuous hall
is calling,
and he wants an answer,
and I have dozens,
mais aucun n'est l'un qu'il veut.
Old story.

'Are you okay?'
It's alright, I'm only singeing
and the noise is only burning
from your voice acrosss the yawning
chasm deep into my throat
where words float, encumbered, in potentia,
and I'm sinking into sleep.

I'm not sinking, only drowning,
lying face down on the sheets
my mother gave me. She embroidered
tiny flowers on the pillows.
This quilt my parents' wedding spread,
frame my father built
from rescued parts. It's not enough.
These close familial charms
will not protect me when his arms
are all that can keep the wolves of his words away.

I need an apotrope.

Green Medusa in the no-man's land
of the middle rooms, the only rooms
where we can meet.
In all others I search for you and am lost.

In yours I am a child.
In mine, an exile.