Tell me this is bad for us:

while I feel a lingering sweetness and smile

from a memory’s projector screen,

neutral as cotton binding the hurt she patched for me,

until her voice is infused the color of daylight,

a she-cat, lounging, purrs inflecting

each word to me, smooth like milk on

a spice burnt tongue, all for me.


Tell me this is bad for us:

as I wake sweating under the hands

of the past, and but for the weight of fingers

on my temples and the smell of almonds in my mind

I would rip my vocal cords to ribbons, fighting

the intangible dread; when my calendar turns to

difficult days, I don’t borrow the car or

take sympathy (pity),

I just wait and let her take the lead.


Tell me this is bad for us:

This? No. This is help and medicine, balm for

memory and slights and the hurts big and little.

Tell me that you are bad for us:

You might just be right.