Half in Halves

You offered to drive and I let you.
I half hated myself for it.

You offered a beer and time to chat.
I half wanted to drive drowsily
to the drafty house I was staying at
alone.

I agreed to a beer with you.
I half wanted to never speak to you again.

You suggested, instead, that I come to your place...
so you could visit with me while preparing your lunch for the next day.
So practical.

I half wanted to tell you to go fuck yourself.

We assembled the bike rack on the back of my car
as we had done about a hundred times before.

I half wanted to tell you that you did it wrong;
the straps weren't tight enough.

I half wanted to let your bike fall off,
halfway down Baltimore Avenue
and watch it get crushed under the trolley.

But I quietly tightened the straps instead.

We got in the car and I told you I didn't want to go to your house.
I half wanted to reach over and touch the soft, sunned skin of your arm.

Instead I told you we had nothing to talk about.

We drove on and I wondered why
we keep seeing each
other.

I told you I would come over for tea.
I half wanted to jump out the car window.

We sat in the dimly lit kitchen of your crunchy communal house
while you chopped sweet potatoes and I chewed the mint leaves from my tea.

It was midnight.
You were making soup.

It was midnight.
I was drinking tea
in your kitchen
watching you make soup.

I wasn't sure which of us was more absurd.

We sat on the couch and spoke about the people we felt ourselves becoming.
The teacup was empty and the soup was delicious.
I half noticed your eyes half closing.

It was time to go.

I asked you to walk me to my car.
I was half hobbling from the blisters on my feet.
You offered me a piggyback ride.
I half believed you wouldn't make it halfway down the block.

But you carried me the whole way.

We held each other in goodbye.
I half wanted to hold you like that forever.
And I was half happy to let you go.

Hour by Christian Hawkey

My sixth sensurround

is down, my second skin

the skin I'm stepping

into: I lick

a new finger & hold it up

to the wind: O my beloved

what. O

my beloved what. O my

beloved shovel-nosed mole

can I clean the soil

from your black, sightless eyes

can I massage with fine oils

your tiny, webbed feet

are you tired of running

into drainpipes

does your mouth foam

approaching power lines

are your tunnels collapsing

do you have work to do

does the dirt breathe

do you breath the air

between the dirt

are your lungs

the size of earlobes

do you hear me

in the tunnel next to you

have you cut your nose

on a shard of glass

have you excavated

the severed, blue leg

of Spider-Man

did you pause to admire

his red booties

are your tunnels collapsing

do you have work to do

am I keeping you

am I keeping you