She takes him home just to let him watch her write.
He makes her rhyme. He shakes her doubts, lays
down blankets of light in the darkness.
She has been disappointed so many times but
it’s always shocking because her basket
is very small and it doesn’t fit very many eggs.
Together they drink homemade wine
and lie, very still, in the vacuum
of her air-conditioned heart.
She likes to write words on her pillow;
little poems to no one because
she knows that, although everyone
listens, no one speaks her language, and
she hopes that someone out there knows
these pictures she is painting in her mind.
She trusts him. She does this because
there is no danger. She is padlocked.
Her electric-shock-defence is a testament
to one stupid egg she purposely put in her basket.
What a bastard.