The Lovesong of the Office Worker
(after Prufrock)
In dreams
the office blooms with scales.
Fishes unzip their bellies,
spill résumés that twitch
and curl on the tank.
Coins scuttle under chairs.
The kitchen woman
wears fishbones for hairpins.
Don’t be so loud,
she says, voice echoing,
tiny fins flicking at her throat
as men stroke her spine,
hands slick with brine.
The worker readies to go home;
the afternoon bruises.
Printers cough.
Keyboards chatter enamel.
Emails cluster in rows,
mouths gaping, unsatisfied.
The snacks lady trails behind,
arms basketed with teeth,
pushing her wares
so she’ll go home empty.
I cradle my coffee,
last small warmth
before the day takes me.
Yesterday
a room of old men asked
why I thought
I could decide alone.
Their shirts starched with small powers,
laughter quick, sharp,
unnecessary.
Beside them,
a woman tightened her smile,
nodded at jokes,
as if stitching herself
into their lapels.
When I spoke,
she wouldn’t look at me.
Adjusted her blouse.
Waited her turn
to be stroked.
Later,
she found me in the hall.
Voice all sugar.
Next time,
maybe remember your place.
Her words hung from my wrist
like damp velvet.
In the office kitchen,
an old woman pressed my hand.
Don’t be so loud, dear.
It’s hard enough as it is.
In corridors
I dodge colleagues’ surprised glances.
Brows lift,
small verdicts.
I fold my legs.
My knees whisper.
Sorry strings itself
pearl after pearl
until it chokes me
gentle.
The new one waits in a doorway,
watching to see
if I will molt
or collapse.
Do I dare
peel them off,
let them see
my skin still raw
for breathing.
Sometimes I think
there’s still time to uncross,
to hunger for what might
make me foolish.
I wake.
The house listens.
Do I dare
keep saying it.
Let us go, you and I.
