See, this is what I hate, you get emotional, I get
emotional, we cannot talk. Energetically
we had been brewing this half a year in I don’t
know what hierarchy, his fury, his terror,
my horror, my rage. It’s incredible we made it so long
without getting into this. Really, I said. My eyeballs burned
like after a long bout of crying or a day spent in the sun.
We did not move at all, lips notwithstanding,
his breathing chopped the air up short and rough
while mine slowed to a dead-and-killing calm.
So still we complemented. And still we
resembled each other, letting the old air out.
My arms look more like his than other women,
the green veins streaking the inner wrist,
blue ones shrewdly crowding the top of our hand.
Kayla Krut is a California writer. She received an Academy of American Poets prize during her MFA at the University of Michigan, and she has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She is currently working on a PhD on literature and mystical transformation at UC Santa Cruz. Read more and/or reach out at www.kaylakrut.wordpress.com.