Crudities of Expression
by Julian Mithra

 
The knowing steals across his face gone slack, and like it’s not so blessed 
after all to be a man born 
to language. 

I have too many words 
for it. 
Tiny pebbles in my boots rubbing blisters, favoring 
one side then the other. And Lem has even worse
overheard in Denver. In Akron. In church.

I wait, eyes down, for him to fish 
a ragged term out and slap me 
with it. We’d be done 
for good. One breath. Two. Then all he says is Aw hell 
and pushes his small face into my neck like a horse. Everything he learned 
about bodies is from animals. Curry combs and diverticulitis 
and the hum you need to get a horse to step 
into a cold stream when she can’t see 
the bottom and might have 
to swim if it gets too deep 
to keep her footing.

Tonight, I’m a stiff pond. Fresh-
froze, terribly hushed. Lem’s weight 
flattens, rehearsing the warnings throughout his years. 
How many disappeared through a hole. Nothing 
is worth the risk of the first, weak freeze. My water 
waits to ambush him with a shock that knocks his lungs
from Damn to plaint.

he nudges 			further/listens 				for a crack’s 	tinkle 
I trace      		 his hands		 	through  my ice 		   ceiling 
Fingers		 splay/creases 			     magnified/pads 		melting 
		mirrored ovals 			     budding fracture    		  he ought to 
retreat/retract weight    		  onto mud 			for him to live
I ought to trust				my crystal to hold/to			   hold him