RUBIN’S VASE
(Maria; one)

I liked the end of being little,
liked spending it with you. Liked our mess
of cigarette sweat, microplastics littered
on our glitter-wide eyes, fat cheeks. Yes,
you gave me a gift: your silhouette
something i could grow against — together
we made an optical illusion, seen best
at an angle; your outline formed my face.
or maybe, simpler, we were just two flies
seeing home in a windowpane, eager
to escape. We built stories like ladders, tried
to climb them. Patched each other’s knees.
we were both the woman, elegant, and the vase,
impatient. Open, filled with empty space.

I TELL YOU I AM MORE UNHAPPY THAN I AM
(Maria; two)

It’s a game we play: I pretend to extend
my restlessness into something strong
and constant. You are a good friend; you pretend
to believe me. Speak about rare steaks, long
kisses, other things i’ve given up. You offer them
back again, through the phone-static. Remind
me of my youth, my maybes. Again
you tell me, break it, come home, it’s time.
I hate California; you hate England.
We pretend to hate everyone except each other.
I cradle the phone; hold your voice in my hand
like something living. We complain about our lovers.
Though neither of us smoke anymore.
I will probably never see you again.