Rebecca Schumejda
What We Use Against One Another
You are thin as a celery stalk
and I, a Bosch pear.
Your feet and hands icicles
from September to June.
In the shower, I use up
all the hot water.
You get the bathmat wet.
I use your toothbrush
your razors
your deodorant.
There are piles of wet leaves
in our yard,
we will let decompose.
Snow and silences
cover blemishes.
Three rakes are truths
hidden under
rubbish in the shed.
On trash days, you wait
until the truck rounds the corner.
Instead of cleaning the fridge,
I push everything back
to make more room.
I ask the same questions
from a dozen different angles.
At parties, when I drink too much,
I paint us naked without consideration.
But, morning afters,
the empty bottle of Aspirin,
you leave in the medicine cabinet,
is much more telling.
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