Apathy

Apathy kills
me when
she rolls
her eyes -

I laugh,
she smirks,
I forget
what I said.

The paper
is wet,

everything
falls away in
a striptease
to the bath.

(Her mother’s greek,
her dad: a misogynist.
She can hold conversation
with just the words
pity and pithy. She
sleeps in cold water.)

Once out,
she returns
to flick through
channels and
papers. She
breathes in
time. Mine.

I ask
her where the
letter is. She asks
me for a number
and sets the table
for her trick.

She holds her
hand over the
candle and counts
until the light
goes out.

Three days later
I find the letter
in the laundry.
She’s always
doing this.