Free Write February 22

Because dusk's slow implosion makes room on our pale tongues
to ruminate the words that push up our throats, we collect
on the clumpy carpet at 8 o'clock to lip leaves off ignored budgets,
to pull your father's thick voicemails out by the roots.
We range widely, cropping gardens of your facial hair, burnt fishsticks;
my lost library books, tango-crushed toes. Since your potbelly shoves

its curve into my lumbar, I know you are an herbivore.
A paleontologist would unravel a name--Therizinosaur, perhaps--with a voice
full of typewriter clicks. She would hold your pelvis up to fluorescent bulbs,
estimate your girth; judge the purpose of each molar in your jaw.
I only examine the glint of your fingernails on the doorknob to know if you're coming or going.