There’s just me and it, he tells me,
breaking down again. It feels like 50 below in here—
he cries, he's freezing,
turning on heaters, adding layers.
It sits on his chest. He gurgles and gags,
he must sit up, he gasps, and then it sits
beside me on the chair, leaning right on me
—this thing that exiles me too
from my own life.
The problem is we are so alone with it.
Not just with it but with his vicious moods.
We don't believe in perpetual light and peace
though we long for it.
He and I are greedy for more of all
that's wild and not dying.
that's wild and not dying.
Then comes his fury
so profane it breaks me some days.
Each moment he remembers it, he rages
against it.
The problem is I can do nothing but accept
a truth that grows harder every day
whenever I look into his unready eyes.
