She constantly ties strings around fingers
of our relationship, reminders to
remain faithful when I need none. Lingers
in halls of intimacy—impromptu
quips of propriety flowing from lips
withered by worry, binding lovemaking
to bedroom floor with barbed wire, metal strips
cuffing our feet to keep us from shaking
loose and dancing. She fears we both may run
away, fleeing each other to escape
boredom, asphyxiation. We’ve begun
to erase metaphors from secret tapes.
Wear plastic name tags when we drive our cars:
Insurance to remember who we are.
Roger Armbrust
February 18, 2011
