I Know That Cry

She started quietly, which was the skill —

not a collapse, just enough

to make the nearest people turn,

and the ones after them.

The room reorganized.

No announcement. Just a slow tilt

of folding chairs and standing bodies

toward the sound, the way iron filings

don't decide, they just go.

The birthday cake sat on the counter, uncut.

I know that cry. I used it once —

November 2019, someone's apartment,

my coat still on, my back to the door.

The room moved the same way.

Someone brought me water in a cup.

I held it in both hands and felt

the attention arrive and stay

and I wanted it.

I did want it.

Driving home tonight, streetlights

going orange then dark.

I kept looking for the difference

between what she was doing

and what I did,

and I couldn't find enough of one

to let myself off with.

Maybe she was telling the truth.

Maybe I was too.

I got home. Sat in the car a while.

Thought about the cake. Whether anyone

got to it.