They drag me in and she's jumping on the bed,
as if trying to convince the downstairs neighbors
that we do still have sex on the weekends.
I write her name on the dark table in darker
streaks using a disinfectant wipe, while she
boils noodles in the kettle, the hob occupied
with frying tofu and greens. Two months
since we last set foot outside, grass shoots
sprouting up along the Bund, we've been here
before, but in a slightly different poem,
down at eye level with an emergent nature,
the bubbles foaming at the metal mouth.
She said the buildings on the opposite bank
looked a little like vegetables, awaiting execution
on the chopping board. It's only now,
without the foot traffic, and without the trampling
that I really see what she was saying, that
we've just stood up everything that was lying down,
and laid ourselves flat in response, no longer
having sex or using the air fryer when it is actually
more convenient. It is not admitting defeat, no,
but it is in fact just keeping quiet, or burying
our outbursts in the pillows, on which we sit
and eat dinner with mismatched chopsticks.
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