Saturday, October 14, 2017

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.


Don’t turn away 
from the mirror. 
Keep looking 
at what you’re made of--cloth strong 
enough to be a flag and don’t forget 
he loved you 
for your spine 
that’s not crocheted but woven 
tight as burlap
and because your heart is spun 
of silk, 
its long threads pulled 
from countless other acts 
of metamorphoses.