Portrait of you as my grief; portrait of me as your exhibit

You say so many words for distance

that I begin to measure breadths

everywhere—

(I’m always short, the amount I am)

I want to claim I’m past my grief’s

whooping—but I still hear it.

(You’re water, we’re in each other)

Post-swim, I shake some of you

out through my ears. Listen,

I would choose not to love you.

(if I could)

I tell my body to steer my heart’s

helm, wear the suit. I captain myself.

(I control the ache that I am)

Except the suit scratches, the boat

won’t move, I am posing with the display

inside of your museum—