I want airplanes if I’m sitting
inside after take-off; only
my number in the dialed
column of your bill. I want to decide
if pancake mix needs eggs and oil
or just water; I still change
filters: coffee, vacuum.
Constellations mark your arms, each
freckle a step forward, an implied connection.
I trace your wrists, drag my fingers
apart to finish Andromeda’s chains.
I want to show you how
she was saved naked, pattern
Thud, and a heavy bar turned
locks you inside. The air
stabilized. A smiling woman
asks if she can get you
something to drink. Your words:
No, thank you. I’m fine. Then hers:
honey, swallow those pills.
I’m trying to figure out what here
means, what should
change, what must stay.
Will salt shakers
slow your healing? Their owl
eyes always watching. I switch
trash to Saturday, rearrange furniture.
Between our phone calls
I sleep and you’re with me, measuring
my body in pieces, like a ruler, with your mouth.
You are determined, then frantic &
sweating. You can’t find the answer, you
aren’t right & I can’t help you. Later, I say no
when you ask if I’ve been dreaming.
Abbie Leavens’ works have appeared previously in Gargoyle, The Battered Suitcase, BlazeVOX, and other journals.