Pillow Talk

It’s best to shut up:
To look at tiny piles of clothes
On the floor and pretend
They’re an archipelago.

But he tells tales about
Moles adrift on parts
Of her back she can’t see.
He has much to say about

Her moles: he claims he visited
Those itsy bitsy islands by ship,
Living on each for a year
And documenting their scent.

He touches the moles tenderly as if
They are the heads of nails
Hammered into her skin
That he has come to pull out.

A prospector of scars, he finds
Even the faintest fossils on her skin.
He asks where she got the scar
That looks like a crescent moon,

And she tells him more about the scar
Than he knows about her motivations.
He knows more about the scar
Than he knows about most people’s lives.

He asks her to turn around,
So he can find more scars,
Because once he finds them all,
He’ll recognize her in the dark

Just by touching them like Braille.
Quietly, he admits the mole on
Her forehead is a tiny hole
Through which he can see

The details of her mind.
She covers the mole with a
Fingertip so he can’t
See the bigger picture.