Across the room behind the mirror

he slips a quarter in the slot.

She can&rsquo;t see him, doesn&rsquo;t want to, isn&rsquo;t interested

in being touched.

How are you? she says; it&rsquo;s what

she always says: safe and friendly, not really

a question. What would you like to talk about?

He doesn&rsquo;t answer, which isn&rsquo;t rare, not

unheard of, just dumb.

He drops a quarter in the slot.

She wraps a finger in a strand of hair.

My sister died of fever, she says, it&rsquo;s what

she always says, it sounds personal, like

she means it. My mother healed herself

by baking bread for eight days straight,

until the racks of loaves reached the kitchen ceiling.

He drops a quarter in the slot.

She has a bruise

the size of a knuckle below her collarbone

and she shows him, which she sometimes does,

though not often. Her husband pushed her there

on his way to work everyday

on his way to poker, on his way to bed.

He&rsquo;s been gone six years, she says, but it won&rsquo;t go away.

It&rsquo;s like a botched tattoo, a smudge of blue ink.

He says something, he says, A tattoo is like a marriage.

He taps the mirror with a coin.

She says, How long were you married?

She says, Sometimes

I can hear the river from my bedroom window.

Sometimes it&rsquo;s the sea. But I know it&rsquo;s just the highway,

just traffic passing through.

He drops a quarter in the slot.

She starts to say something else, how she&rsquo;s been to Hawaii.

She hears the door open, close.


James Harms

Bruise

Begin in Gladness

James Harms

Film Ekphrasis: Poems on Film

Bruise

Begin in Gladness