Like Tin

You make me write again.

This pen in shaking hands,
cold fingers,
this January
You will come over
arriving sweaty from the bus stop
in your suit and uncomfortable shoes.
I will be clean, barefoot
my jeans warm—just out of the dryer.

You will fall on my bed
and stare at the ceiling,
loosen your tie.

I will be making tamales,
the water hissing through the steamer.

I will climb on the bed too
and stare at you.

Mostly we are strangers.

I'll try to imagine who you are—
this boy who keeps a slim gold pen
in his pocket,
his favorite,
afraid I'll steal it
while he's not paying attention.

And what will you think of me?
This girl who can't find her keys
at the bottom of her purse,
who pours her whole self out,
chatters incessantly
over one glass of wine.

You'll take my cold hand and put it to your chest.
And we'll wait
all this nothing built up
watching and not watching each other

listening to the sound of the water
in the steamer,
a tin sound

like telephone wires crackling against each other.

— Sasha Eakle