“Wait a minute, I wasn’t done.”
“You’re done,” he said.
Well, he didn’t say it. But he moved it.
The tone of the words he didn’t say
echoed
like a cowbell on a neck
between two mountainsides.
Back and forth
and back and forth
until one forth
and no more back.
And, “You’re done.”
But silent.
A slippery tear fell down.
But tears never roll
in a straight line.
They zigzag
from your heart to your eyes
and echo
like a horn blown inside a cave.
He didn’t say it
but he showed it.
And his movement was stillness.
Like a door
closing
before you reach it.
“Wait for me, I want to sit down.”
“You’re too slow,” he said.
Well, he didn’t say it. But he stood it.
Stood over it
like a calculation
he could see from above.
The mechanics of his breathing
echoed
like the ticking of a clock
dropped inside a hollowed pot.
Up and down
and up and down my heart
filled up
and one more down
and down.
And, “Go faster.”
But slow.
An emptying of all that was,
scattered on the ground.
The pieces
drifted
like leaves
between trees.
“Wait a minute, I wasn’t done.”
“You’re done,” he said.
And I was.
—Iris Lennox, 2026
Iris Lennox 