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The Interview
by Amanda Moon
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this will be a study of your whole person
that i can read into, like i can read into your eyes
from across the newsprint table
in a glass café.
to begin, i will say the way you squint into the ancient sun
that skims along traffic jams
must be the same slow way your eyelids would drop
if i touched your face at three a.m.
and the famous pause before you answer
thinks of me,
and not the million things you know
are too honest to speak.
i suffer the grinning joke
accented in your anecdote
as it charms a smile to the lips i miss, i will say
it's like you've murdered me a kiss.
have i been here so much time
that we are laughing out our conversation
that harmless way, i don't hear you sighing
as if by smoke inhalation
the way you would if i slipped my finger through your
skin, and your hand around your coffee cup
around my wrist
how i disregard my notes, and start writing all of this.
painting you in the light that trickles down your cheek
as it would trickle down your chest if i reflected you a pond.
where but in a glass café on a downtown street
could you show your teeth and have me under the table, anon?
my hope in the tape, i trust i will decipher your words later
but it sounds like nothing i know right now
sounds like you should be arched up like a cat
sounds like you know exactly how.
now this is not a portrait of anything but me
i have put too much of myself into my art
and have not been looking at you with my eyes
but rather with my heart.
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