by April Salzano
He says he has to take a shit.
I say I am dropping yesterday’s
indulgences into the toilet
with colitic imprecision. He says fire,
if he’s trying, tongues of flame. I speak
of burning and I mean cleansing,
absolution, never punishment at the stake.
He says only one answer can ever be right.
I see perspective as the only side to truth.
He cheers the hunter, I mourn the prey. For him,
love is conditional, wholly dependent on keeping
promises. For me it is a well, dark and full of sound
not unlike the small splash of water, the wish
of a coin landing somewhere deeper
than we can perceive.