oh what did he want and how could she manage to wait

She was thinking of his explanation
as a kind of Möbius strip, circling
endlessly, seamlessly reversing and twisting
to reveal the underside, on-going words. Lost in it,
she reached down into the limited
rough space between the bed and the wall,
and her hand came up skinned, the top layer
from knuckle to wrist peeled away.
This was part of her usual vigilance--
He would spill something, lose something, and she'd
rush to wipe away, find the missing,
like this automatic retrieving of his sock--

Beaded with blood, she examined
the wide scrape in addition
to sunspots, moles, the wormy down-under,
raised-vein look of her skin. Another thing on her body
to heal outside, while inside
running through her, the ribbon of his words:
no, then yes, yes, and no again. Oh what did he want

and how could she manage to wait
for the circling to stop--
how could she keep still?

[Cleopatra Mathis {1947- } 'Their Chamber' from Book of Dog]