Ode to the Knees That Do Not Touch, by Rakev Gemechu

What he once called a song
bright with breath,
a flame in the chest
now rasps from lips
loosened by years.

My mom used to say hair holds memory
Because it grows on face
And face holds memory even better
Her face remembers the smile
Tight cheeks. Practiced teeth.
A laugh too thin
to hold.

Is it a howl?
A wail?
He cannot say.
Still, he laughs
though nothing is funny.

The bed beneath them
stiffens with cold.
Pillows bloom
with someone else’s heat.
They lie like strangers
trained in sleep
chins lifted,
elbows sealed,
eyes stitched
to the ceiling’s dark.

Silence swells.
Not loud
but thick
as wool.
It has been
thirty years.

In the other room,
a dress hangs still.
Once white,
now rust.

It does not weep.
It does not fade.
It gloats
in stillness,
smug with memory.

She no longer turns to it.
He forgot it long ago.

Their knees
do not touch.
The air between them
aches —
with weight.
With memory
that has no mouth.

They grow cold.

Teeth do not chatter.
Words do not stir.

And still —
their knees
do not touch.