On Refraction

by John A. Nieves

It’s a Wednesday like one of those
when we used to call the windows
strangleglass because they choked

the light to drizzle-gray. And yes, I’m in
a different bed that feels like the same
bed. And yes, I still see your fingers

sift your hair, slight as smoke, your cheek
only a glint on the pillow. I know you
never know the last time you do anything.

I know I could be typing one of these
words never again. And like this morning,
like that morning, I can taste the leaving, that

everyday velar souring that made me want
to rinse my mouth when I heard
your keys lullaby the lock, when the car

door clapped, when the engine opened
like an eddy in quick crossing currents.
Today, I put my hand on my partner’s

shoulder and drink her easy warmth. Later,
she will not call to say the next thing snuck
up on her. She will not give me an address

and ask for any sending. And while you both
say nothing in the storm-light, I know
they don’t mean the same.

Published on October 29, 2020