The Act of Counting

Death is careless at times. It confuses love with a wet afternoon in an empty room.  The  unpainted walls a reminder of how sex can resemble poverty.  A hollow  cry.   An open mouth falling inside as you sleep.   I prepare  my heart and language with better words,  like worlds in small selves  I've built.  Every month,  one dollar buys me one brick.  But  how many bricks  does  it  take to build a house?  A stray dog barks late at night.  I can't  see him  but know he's there.   He   reminds   me   that  here,  dreams  have  dangerous  turns.  I  turn around  to  no  one  naked  beside  me. I  play  it  safe  not to see the fire in my hands.  But let us be clear:  I'm no beggar.  It's  just that there are times  when the  world  is  a  sound  that  cripples  the air,  and the soul. When what seems arranged — glazing and  strange,  like  music  played on tin cans — turns  into wilting  noise.  When  suddenly,  all  that  exists  is  a small boy trying to focus on the pain lifting a nation.  A telephone call:He was wearing black shoes, a Calvin  Klein  T-shirt  that he  found in a hotel trash, brown slacks.  She  was wearing  one  earring  on her right ear,  one sock on her left foot, a dress the color  of sky.  She  bought him  a canne à sucre.  He pulled her close, said, Ti cherie.   And  after  they  promised  to meet  later,   she  winked  and  walked leisurely in the shade. A tremble followed. When he turned around, her body was one of a thousand on the streets. He ran towards her, stood by her arm,unable to see her face. The call drops. I begin to count the ways I tolerate my dry mouth. To count the glasses of water I gave away to make up for my sins. But this act does not count when we fall out of our hearts.