THE SONNETS TOUCH
Wyatt Seder-Burnaford
I used to have this really bizarre thing
with my roommate. We would come home and stare
at each other until some silent wing
would beat inside our heads or somewhere
else. We would just stare with our faces blank.
I remember how dead his eyes would get,
his lips totally sagged, tranquilized
entirely, his yawning pores all red.
Anything is an art-piece if you look
at it long enough. But it wasn’t us
we were looking at. We were slow-cooking
each other’s bodies through our eyes, the touch
of some limb that does not exist. That you
are meant to forget. Let rot. You, you, you.
One time I left the stove on all night long.
The neighbors smelled the gas and sent fire
men to my door. They knew something was wrong.
I woke up to pounding. Confused, tired.
They would have broken the door down if I
didn’t get it. They were this close. This close.
The men came in, turned off the stove, tried
to speak to me but I could barely move
my mouth to say I was sorry. They laughed
at how tired I was. (Also I was
naked). They smiled, said that I was half
in the bag. They were heavy, loud. No fuss,
they said. They were a total blur. Traces
of chipped wood, hard hats. No eyes, no faces.
My roommate had been away. I told him
when he came back about the stove. About
the snapped door that now needed to be fixed.
He was angry. He looked me up and down,
shouted about what it meant to him that
I could let this kind of thing happen in
the place where he lived. Then my face went slack.
I was pressed against the inside of my skin.
I had nothing to say except to see
him crystal clear. To watch his sockets breathe,
flex, get wider. I tried hard to feel, feel
the air, the ugly needy air, the seething
throb that was always already melting.
melting it was melting it was melting
with my roommate. We would come home and stare
at each other until some silent wing
would beat inside our heads or somewhere
else. We would just stare with our faces blank.
I remember how dead his eyes would get,
his lips totally sagged, tranquilized
entirely, his yawning pores all red.
Anything is an art-piece if you look
at it long enough. But it wasn’t us
we were looking at. We were slow-cooking
each other’s bodies through our eyes, the touch
of some limb that does not exist. That you
are meant to forget. Let rot. You, you, you.
One time I left the stove on all night long.
The neighbors smelled the gas and sent fire
men to my door. They knew something was wrong.
I woke up to pounding. Confused, tired.
They would have broken the door down if I
didn’t get it. They were this close. This close.
The men came in, turned off the stove, tried
to speak to me but I could barely move
my mouth to say I was sorry. They laughed
at how tired I was. (Also I was
naked). They smiled, said that I was half
in the bag. They were heavy, loud. No fuss,
they said. They were a total blur. Traces
of chipped wood, hard hats. No eyes, no faces.
My roommate had been away. I told him
when he came back about the stove. About
the snapped door that now needed to be fixed.
He was angry. He looked me up and down,
shouted about what it meant to him that
I could let this kind of thing happen in
the place where he lived. Then my face went slack.
I was pressed against the inside of my skin.
I had nothing to say except to see
him crystal clear. To watch his sockets breathe,
flex, get wider. I tried hard to feel, feel
the air, the ugly needy air, the seething
throb that was always already melting.
melting it was melting it was melting