Visiting - Poem

Inside, it’s cushioned.

You:

It’s heavy. It dangles from my lips

like bait on a hook. Food, at what cost?

I collect

all of what makes up

you

give it back giftwrapped.

Your expectations, my burden

Is that why you slip

through my touch, your gentle illusion

wavering ripples like water?

I am not insane. I know I have held you,

but I cry at every passing taxi is he there?

I dial your old number and a stranger picks up.

I see you in rooms I still have the locks for.

Your cab, those leather seats,

Toblerone in the glovebox, those giant plastic cups you drank

lassi out of, your salted cucumbers, your old minifridge you kept your socks in,

your spot on the couch all glass memories I reach for

and draw back blood.

Inside, it’s sharp.

A phantom embrace, a director’s cut, you holding me:

A flash reel of life gone by.

Please:

Be the angel by my deathbed,

put my soul to rest,

bury your daughter,

watch with me what you couldn’t

before and what I couldn’t remember,

those colored moments where both of us

are in the frame.

I leave the door open.