She lifts her head...

from the thin fabric,
tired of hearing the rustling
of microscopic men
on her pillowcase
and the constant touch
of the sheets draping themselves
across her arms,
legs,
breasts

more than he’s touched her
in two weeks
“alone with the alone”
except the alone is not with her
only herself,
and trivial things-
needles from the fluorescent light
stabbing her eyes,
and the long, stiff armrest
of the dried-dirt-colored chair
she sits on

picking balls of concentrated lint
off the gut of her sweatshirt,
she wonders if it would be different
if they lived in another era,
she clad in a long gown,
and he in a dark suit,
drinking red wine
from extravagant stemware

or in another world,
her the
purple, dancing, feathered leaves
to his
liquid, gyrating trunk

Series Johanna VI by Alexander Bergström