I’m only reminded
of it now, when I cross
one leg over the other.
The skin pulls
and I wince.
The memory of it
is a red flag
raised high
on a pole –
not outside a school
or a courtroom –
but outside
your door.
There are tears
in it, reminders
of where my finger-
nails had torn.

Listen to the flap.
That is the sound I make trying
to talk to you: that stuttering
in the wind where
I can’t quite catch
the letters I want,
where you throw back the ones
I do manage
to let leap out.

The longer I sit
in one position and not
move, the better.
I hide the prickly pin feeling
as I shift in my seat.
This is not domestic;
you have not touched me.
It is real and hurried,
a part of last night’s
afterthought,
a sigh made
in retrospect.

11/25/2004

Posted on 11/25/2004
Copyright © 2026 Lisa Marie Brodsky