The main thrust of the argument
was that she was cold and he
was an empty can of cream soda.
Yellow jackets hummed around
his gaping mouth, sampling his sugar.
Or else she was hang gliding
over treacherous cliffs while he
refolded the family chute.
She never let him see her without
her headband on, and he
owned no socks. There was vinegar
in the gin, there were worms
in the sink, and there were layers
of frustration so deep
they needed to subcontract an excavator
whose cousins had voted
themselves right off the electoral map.
What I mean is what I’m
trying to say what I must tell you what
you said yesterday
about the state of my soul hurt me
so completely I have been
bleeding from my perfect ear.
Adam Sol has published four collections of poetry, including Complicity (M&S 2014), Jeremiah, Ohio (Anansi 2008), and Crowd of Sounds (Anansi 2003). He also manages a blog, How a Poem Moves (howapoemmoves.wordpress.com), which will be appearing in book form in 2019 from ECW Press.