Brandon McNeice

Love

I keep trying to say I love you
like it’s one clean sentence,
no footnotes, no forecast
scrolling underneath.

I say I love you
and in the same breath notice
the fork fossilized in orange sauce
at the bottom of your sink,
how I tallied the plates
like a petty accountant
and never reached for a sponge.

I say I love—
and my mouth flinches,
reaches for something smaller:
you know I care,
you’re important to me,
light bulbs instead of the breaker.

I call it caution,
grown-up pacing,
but what I mean is
my tongue knows the code
for self-destruct.

I picture your face hearing it,
your eyes opening like a door
I have already traced for exit routes—
which chair will tip,
which window sticks,
how the porch railing feels
under one quick swing of my leg.

So, I rehearse elsewhere.
I love you into the mirror steam,
into the dark of the closet,
into the hum behind the refrigerator—
surfaces that fog, take it,
forget it by morning.

You ask what I’m thinking
and all the real answers pile up
at the back of my teeth.

Out loud I choose the duds:
nothing,
work,
I’m tired.

Each one a little wire I twist loose
under the table,
small, contained,
no sparks,
just enough
that by the time we’re done eating
every bridge between us
has failed inspection
and somehow
still looks whole.

***

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Brandon McNeice is a Philadelphia-based writer and educator. His work appears or is forthcoming in SmokeLong Quarterly, Plough, Front Porch Republic, Beyond Words, Sport Literate, The Rush Magazine, and Flash Frog.