My Interest

You say, “it’s interesting how we all try so hard to be

interesting, isn’t it, how you do and I do, how we try?”

How we talk, you and I: circumlocution: how

our hands engage, instead; “it’s interesting,” you say again.

 

“You’re interesting,” you’re insisting, “Intelligent:

I’m smarter than my mother, but that doesn’t make me interesting—

Instead, I just accessorize with Lichtenstein or Plath.”

You laugh; self-castigation, but you’re worried—I adore

that I can read your particles of thought within the

patterns of your hands, that interests me. 

 

I moon away— I croon internal, swoon, and numb, articulate,

“If you’d only let me lend you, dear, to see yourself,

my head, my heart, my hands, and then…” 

You shake your head; dissent (you’d never let me give them up,

not completely, anyway. What part of my heart interests you?)

 

It interests me, our disconnect; how infinitely curious and

sad.  My interest in you never will suffice.

(Certainly not my adoration; how interesting,

how interesting your mouth; it makes cloud shapes.

I’d like to stop its movement with my hands.) 

(2006)