Steven Pfau

July 23, 2020

This morning the pipes are clogged again
in my brain, flooded with the same old gray

dishwater, foaming with regret, despair, etc.,
until the longed-for body waking beside mine

wraps an arm around my chest, gives a little tug
to unstop me, burnishes the day ahead. I forgot

that could happen. Yeah, he says, sweeter than
I remember, and I missed having someone to push

me around in the night and steal the sheets. I wish
I were gentler when I’m afraid. To repent or

maybe to celebrate, I’ll make the coffee, more than
we could want, another thing to leave unfinished.

Steven Pfau is a Los Angeles–based essayist and poet. He received his MFA from the University of Idaho, and his writing appears or is forthcoming on and in Blue Earth Review, DIAGRAM, Guernica, Hobart, Passages North, and The Shore.