My mother talks to herself incessantly,
standing in the soup aisle
muttering, Tomato basil?
Chicken noodle? or arranging
her cabinet of curiosities, mumbling,
No, no, as she stacks teetering brown teacups
under the belly of a white violin, a fox’s small-toothed jaw
falling at her feet. Today I was waiting for the bus
and a man circled me three times on a bike,
each time around he uttered, Hey, sweet thing.
I got on and whispered the days of the week,
the alphabet, and the Hail Mary
as I realized he was following us.
When I got off, I saw he was just a boy,
eyes big as the day his mother birthed him.
A lover of mine mumbles while we fuck,
too quiet for me to hear. I can always make out
You, I, like, sometimes love. Once,
he grazed my belly and shuttered something
like humbled or maybe hallowed.
While everyone sits in mass,
scratching their knees or hoping for donuts,
the priest is offering the Secret prayer—
words he says so softly no one
but God may hear. Tonight I’m at a bar where
the bartender makes everyone whisper
and I read aloud what someone wrote above the toilet
in red, chalky letters, I wrote this book
because I love you