You have no idea, he says.

His voice is hard like a frozen wave.

When you look down.

When he looks away.

What do you do.

When you’ve made pot roast

a thousand Sundays,

washed his socks

and kissed him

and left millions of strands of your hair

on his clothes.

When all you had is never was.

What do you do.

You have no idea, he says.

He could wiggle his eyebrows like Groucho Marx.

Make your cat, Swoosie, sit up and beg.

He could melt you and put you in ice cube trays.

What do you do.

When the curtain parts to an empty stage.

When you pick up the script

and words fall from the page.

You have no idea, he says.

You thought you did.

What does that make you now.

When it pulls you down to where it lives.

When it forgets the last time it was fed.

What do you do.

When you thought you’d make pot roast

a thousand more Sundays

and you’ve kissed his hair

and your hair smells like him.

Three in Midland. Two in Calhoun.

His voice is even and hard like sheet metal.

He could shatter their teeth.

He could dance with their bones.

Dogs found one outside of Twin Springs.

You had an idea.

You thought you did.

What do you do.

What does that make you then.