I don’t talk
til the car stops moving. I run
through the words
til they collapse at the red light.
“This is what you do. Put your arms
around me and let me cry
It’s 86 degrees but he cranks
the heat, tries to drown
his silence with our sweat
as if the sting of salt water
alone could sate me.
“It’s that simple. That’s all you
silent, he floods his car
with the sounds of Steve Reich.
The first time he played me
a Reich song he said
that stillness is a type of growth,
repetition a form of rapture.
I wanted to laugh, but I listened
instead to the tide of marimbas
ebbing at his speakers
and hoped to hear something more.
When the light turns green his foot
hits the gas and somewhere he
is already searching for a new
note to play.