[poetry]Understanding a wrinkle

[JetPlane]

You press the wrinkle
in the tablecloth down,
your smile hovering above
the clean linen;
a water bottle in your
right hand spritzes
suddenly
and I see you draw
your index finger
across the wrinkle,
willing it to plain
rather than mountain.
Your mother's coming over,
cocktail weenies a shrimp ring
sparkling, bubbling beverages
and your yorkie lavishly
licking your mother's
wrinkled, spotted hand,
the wedding ring so large
and her finger grown so thin,
it slips and the dog licks
the diamond as if it were
a sweet hard candy.
You haven't quite
come out yet,
and everything should
be absolutely perfect.
You lean forward,
attempting to see the wrinkle
from an angle,
maybe this diagonal glance
will give a solution
to the relevant problem
of this one, 6-inch wrinkle.
Your eyes flicker up to mine
as I put the shrimp ring
on the table.
"What do you think?"
"It won't go away."
"It will. It has to."
I brush your hair from your eyes
and lean down to kiss you
but you look down at the wrinkle
rather than at me
and I turn to get the glasses.
I watch you from the kitchen sink,
crouched over the table,
your water bottle like
an assailant's rifle
and the wrinkle just a group
of elks you have to cut down
and bring home for supper
or the entire tribe will starve.
Their tattooed, shivering bodies,
thin and rugged,
their hands chapped and bleeding,
their mouths so dry you have to
place your ear against their trembling,
numbed lips to hear their jarbled
reflects on language,
you must bring it home.
Kill it all and wipe it out.
You revoke love,
seemingly temporarily.
Kissing me, your dear lover,
goodbye at the front door;
Celibate, I watched you
silently, pressing my cheek
against the doorframe.
You slugged your rifle,
carved out of the sweetest care
and devotion,
over your right shoulder.
You waved to our neighbors,
crowding with their faces
pressed up against the window.
You could see their pants nearly
falling, the belts placed at the last notch,
their ribs smooth and naked
and the air was as still as after
a snowstorm, not even the dying
cared to take their last breath.
Your mother knocked
and we both looked up
startled, though it was the correct
time of her arrival and she was
always punctual. You put down
the water bottle and walked to
the door, unsteadily, you clutched
at the wall and it was only moments
later before your mother flounced in,
taking up space like earthworms
swallow soil. She asked me
who I was and you said,
quickly and with purpose,
"She's a friend." Turning back
to your wrinkle, you pointed
out its rebellion and knowing the leaving
was not just seemingly temporary,
I busied myself with pouring
the beverages, you crouched,
your red dress shirt tight against
your spine and your hair sparkling
in the glow of candlelight.
You got lost and we all starved
waiting, just for you, to press your lips
against our dimming ears and say,
"Yes, reflect, reflect, reflect,
I do love thee."

[Ancient History]

I know poetry doesn't have to rhyme, but mayhap you could give this sucker a little rythym at least? Something with a certain number of syllables maybe?

[JetPlane]

And make it terrible? No, I'm fine not using rhyme and terrible using it.

[Ancient History]

<insert_shrug> To each their own. I just don't think it flows at all as is.

[Crazy Elf]

You lean forward,
attempting to see the wrinkle
from an angle,
maybe this diagonal glance
will give a solution
to the relevant problem
of this one, 6-inch wrinkle.

Clunky.

I brush your hair from your eyes
and lean down to kiss you
but you look down at the wrinkle
rather than at me
and I turn to get the glasses.

Too descripting, everything else is floating in verbose pontification, whereas this is very dry "he said she said" stuff. Seems wasted.

I busied myself with pouring
the beverages

Busied is a shit word.

Otherwise, all is well. It hints at a lot, without saying much.