She congratulated me on the book.
She entertained the notion that I have something to say.
She always did.
But I don't have anything to say.
I am not an intellect.
Not a talent.
I always wanted my silence to speak for me.

Sorensen called.
He said: Marianne is pregnant, and she's happy.
I called her and I congratulated her.
She tried to turn it back on to me.

She used to entertain the notion that women fall in love with me.
She used to let me talk about my tribulations,
pretending not to know that all this talk was just a way of showing off:
look at me, I'm wanted.
Which was to say:
I want to be seen as wanted.
She always let her silence speak for her.
She is an intellect.
A talent.

Sorensen watches closely, to see if it hurts,
But if Marianne is happy,
the world is not so bad.