She would fear me.
The secrets I could spill
Would make her sorry she
Made Swiss cheese
Of my plaster and paint
With her nails and tacks
Self-indulgently displaying
A life.
I know her favorite color,
That she cries at the end
Of every movie she watches,
The name of the boy behind the warm rose
Creeping across her cheeks,
That he cancelled on Tuesday
That she lets herself be
Disappointed behind closed doors
When she thinks that no one
Is listening.
Of me she knows nothing
Except how to rub discarded caps
Of empty beer bottles
Along my rough surface
And make them stick,
Superficial trophies of
Nights she is allowed
To check her mind
At the door.
She covers me with memories,
Photographs and bottle caps
To hide my drab
Imperfections. She bears all to me,
Feeling a safety in her simple minded privacy.
But if I could talk
She would fear me.