In the evening when the boys have
gone to be with you my fingers
trace the edges of book bindings.
I trace them like old memories of
when my brain was part of what
connected me to my most
trusted companions.
How we lived with our heads
dangling for so long is a
mystery only explained by God.
He knew my heart needed
tethering to someone who could
enfold and protect it.
Whose gaze could build me up
like a clutch that had
been worn smooth from
too much shifting.
Shifting because the world was
a Rolodex always spinning
while I searched for the
number to call home.
You held me safe there with
my eyes half open
refusing to see what I
knew was there all along.
My hand finds the title,
“Starved Stuff.” The irony grows
a chuckle from my belly,
soft and jiggling from too many
nights of chocolate grazing.
The man whose words kept us
together also spoke words that
began the unraveling. A snag not
fixed by gently tugging,
gently pulling.
We were never meant to be a sweater.
Maybe a vest or scarf, but the sweater
was too big for us.
We were kin to the tropics, and this
sweater scratched on salty slick skin.
Don’t think I didn’t love you.
Even with the sandpaper of your face
when you kissed me goodnight I
loved you.
Even with calloused fingers that
traced my sensitive shoulders I
loved you.
I wanted to be more fit for the Arctic.
I wanted to stay wrapped up in you
with your flesh warm and inviting,
but I am not fit for cold weather.
I am made for barefoot and
sunshine bearing down on my nose.
