If He Leaves Me First
If he leaves the water running in this cool night, the steel stomach of the sink
wet, like mine, in this lighting, if he doesn’t look me in the eye when he says nothing,
if he leaves me alone with the poetry on the shelf,
if he leaves a note under the pillow of someone else,
if he leaves me without his volumes of silence— without taking back
those silences. If those silences turn into still frames
— the ties between black eyes,
the crescendo of hair, the drop over drop of sweat on my back,
that sound, such regular melody, such regular pounds, those blank
sheets, if he tucks that behind my ear, and leaves
no record, no note, no letter, not one scratch,
if he takes all the music with him —
if he leaves nothing and then nothing comes.
