debbie millman

Thursday, November 02, 2006


You held your hand across your mouth as I spoke,
watched me with squinted eyes and I knew what you were thinking
as if I had thought it myself.

I watched the waiters shimmying as they walked by
They did not want to see what I knew they were seeing:
Your hand on your mouth; they were afraid to touch us.

You knew all along. You knew as I buttered the coarse bread,
how easily the creamy spread smeared my fingers.
You knew when I arrogantly sipped my wine,

eyes flickering, unwilling to meet your gaze
as I swallowed the last little bit and wiped
my wet mouth with the white, sauce stained napkin.

I told you I had waited my whole life to hear what he told me.
I told you that I thought I loved him.
You watched me, you covered your mouth, you blinked.


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