You pushed me through a closed door once
in a flurry to get all done
that had to be done.
Then, you pushed a comb through my head
like a key card to a skyscraper.
I take a turtle’s lifetime to move now:
sip whiskey through tight teeth,
compose shopping lists with pinpoint precision.
I fold sheets slowly and stroke each weave, the way
a sitcom mother strokes her daughter’s hair.
You sit between my brows
queen that you are,
usurper of my head,
you fall back laughing
at the frivolity of your own making.
I peel my jeans off the way Apa peeled honey.