Counting the damage

What if I forget him?

What if he blurs like a good vacation?

Already I have to concentrate, piece him 

together as a puzzle, matching the bits into familiar

body parts--his swollen knee, wrist with
fancy watch, lips pinched into a trumpet.   

What if the pieces tatter? 

Stop fitting? 

What if one day I can’t recall 

but a moment? 

Already a hush settles into every crevice 

as if stillness were normal in our house.

Already I have grown used to having 
no one in love with me.

I frame photos with the breath of panic,

mail his face to everyone.

I will not count his memory

among all the other damage.