They Come at Night

I know how to read men even

with my eyes closed, hands out, fingers reading

the Braille of sweat, of the man on the bed

beside me. I pretend I’m deaf

so he won’t talk to me, but I have been alive just long enough

to know when someone is about to come even through

the soles of my feet, to know exactly

the conclusion of invisible things. If this man

wants to talk to me

afterwards, hold me in his cool, strong arms

whisper muddled recriminations into my ears

that’s fine, so long as he doesn’t expect a response.

In the morning, I’ll tell him

and how even songbirds sound suspicious

when you’ve had your heart broken.