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.
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.
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.