Ouija Board


You were my Ouija board.

Beauty marks were letters on your abdomen.

The sockets of your waistline

scarred with punctuation.

We had our own communication.

Laughter was the accent that rolled off our tongues.

Shifts in eyes said more than shifts in tone.

We’d leave our friends downstairs.

Step up the apartment’s spine,

stay silent until the door shut.

Squeeze my wrist: “hello.”

Flick my funny bone: “no.”

Cradle my hand’s dorsum: “yes.”

Pull down your shirt: “goodbye.”

You controlled the communication.

Sometimes we’d switch sides,

You’d turn on your side

and face me. I hated this.

Back already against wall,

you’d push me, pull me,

mold me into your embrace.

How close are we going to get

until you admit there’s something here?

Friends would climb the spine

one by one. Waiting for words,

searching for shadows, but you

kept our time confidential.

You only spoke to explain:

this wasn’t sexual,

this wasn’t wrong,

this just was.



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