Mimetic Desperations

Because there’s little other choice, I sit on the margarine golden yellow sofa and exchange pleasantries over a sickly sweet danish. Pick at the frosting with the edge of my fork. Choke small pieces of pure super saturation down the back of my throat. Already the span of the week leaves me feeling tired. I close one eye and look. First the left. Then the right. He shifts slowly in space and time. And I try hard to remember what that means about vision, but can’t. Suddenly, I decide I’m not sure what any of this means. Resolve that things with sugar coatings are not always easier to swallow. Thankful for the contrast of the coffee I’ve made – too strong and hot. He complains. I pretend not to hear. Sip each bitter mouthful in deference to the lies that would otherwise spill out and take shape between us. I remain silent. Balance my plate on the edge of the table and hope that it falls. Concentrate. Because that’s what I can do. What remains when everything’s already been said. Sometimes things are better off when they've been broken into pieces. He looks plaintive as I contemplate the many apologies that I could offer about myself to make him feel better. Instead, the memory of anyone who ever really loved me takes possession. And I remember that wrong is not my name. I sit up straighter – establish eye contact and say -- I don’t understand what you want from me. There’s no answer to that question. And I’ve too much work to do to mind the empty responses that I’ve already committed to memory.