She’s saying
I wish there could be a metaphorical
investigative committee
and I’m saying
therapy or a priest?

and, behind us,
the excellence of bright children

and, on our walk home,
the left glove

and I’m saying
I’m fueled by kissing and crimes
against the environment

and she’s saying
the cat shaped depression in this cushion

the necessity of the cat

and I’m saying
I’ve never met a silk sheet I didn’t want to ruin

and, at home,
the fingerprints disappearing
from your grandfather’s coat

the way we carve people out like water through a rock face
the way we read it on their faces
like laundry lines
like clouds

Copyright © 2018 by Emily Hunerwadel. Used with the permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in Quarterly West Issue 94.