What Do You Talk About, After All These Years?

Claire Taylor

At sixteen:
our hands did most of the talking
—a chorus of want
Do you like me?
Could you love me?
Am I fat?
Yes. Yes. Who cares?
your fingers replied

In our twenties:

we needed to talk
scream
late into the night;
let me make one more point
as the sun comes up
Just forget it
I said, but I meant
I will never forget this

See how I still bring it up sometimes
at the end of a long day when
I don’t care for the tone of your voice

I told you so

In our thirties:

we tell the same old stories, laugh anew
sit on the couch and recount
the cute thing the three year old did only an hour ago
What’s for dinner?
Should we have another baby?
Did you remember to pick up toothpaste?

We stand silent
as you roll the tube and squeeze out
the last few drops

Does this look okay? I ask
but what I mean is

are you still the boy
who once pressed me up against
the wall of a stranger’s bathroom?
am I still the girl
who could only fall asleep to
the sound of your heartbeat?

It looks good,
you reply