I had questions I still think of them, an old silver platter You can’t use it, it’s too valuable You can’t throw it out, it’s too valuable To soil, to salvage, to sell I said everything I could It was nothing You said everything you could You said everything You left hungry Am I clean enough? Will you keep me? Now I have questions I can’t use them, they’re too valuable They’re too vacant now. Why’d you have to say it? Don’t answer that Don’t you have somewhere to be? Don’t answer that So you fell down and scraped the callouses from your skin and you looked up at me And you asked “did it hurt?” I couldn’t answer that. You fell and all the stars clattered out of your hair and scorched through the floorboards and you looked up at me and asked “did it burn?” I couldn’t have said a word. I didn’t even ask I wondered I rolled it around on my tongue, an ice cube that wouldn’t melt I wanted to ask But my tongue was a silver platter I couldn’t use it I couldn’t throw it out Am I clean enough? Can you see yourself in me? And before you say yes, think: For the nook above your sink? For a box in the garage where you keep useless things? There’s a silver platter under your tree on Christmas day. So imagine I said it then There’s a silver platter, tarnished, in a drawer Imagine I say it now There’s a silver platter at the bottom of a box And you leave hungry I say everything I can And it’s nothing And there’s ice on my tongue, I would have said it burned. You say everything you can And leave hungry and there’s a silver platter covered in stars and scorch marks and mottled skin is it clean enough? Will it ever be? Can you see your face in it now? Could you see it then?
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