Back home from work, I hear
the couple next door fighting.
Yell and scream scratching
the weak wall separating us;
a chalkboard. Night wipes a duster
over the scribbles of daylight.
Rain has lashed at the street’s
memories of sweat. Over dinner,
a sob makes its way to me like smoke
from a distant chimney: the afterword
of every flame. This year, I’ve only sobbed
twice – behind two separate toilet doors.
Someone had said, if you feel like crying
in the middle of the street, try to hold it
till home. I’m not sure it’s healthy, but
when I tried it, I forgot to cry at all.
There must be a place in the body for all
the weeping we forget, an organ digesting
grief, churning it again and again until
what remains is resilience. Later at night,
when I’m off to bed, all I hear is giggles
and the occasional kiss. I open the window.
The moon stretches inward like an old friend.