Swollen
for H.
It wounds me that I can’t tempt him
from his fate, but
I did feel beautiful this morning,
weeping in the shower
and charmed by my cartoon
balloon eyes—
skin stretched tight,
catching the light.
You should see them (he should,
he has, no avail).
They are lovely, open sores, ripe
with paradox:
swelling up the more
they’re drained out.
Voyeur’s Video
for C.
The memory is hazy,
the photographic still
of the memory I keep
in my head, more so.
It’s a fraction of face,
with the ear center frame,
little blonde hairs wisping
around, too short to tuck,
but I tried anyway.
When the still breaks into
memory in motion,
that’s what I see: a hand,
desperate to possess.
I don’t know that the hand
is mine until the film blurs,
and I’m back in my body,
feeling my fruitless fingers:
I couldn’t reach him.
Was the graze as good,
as the grasp might have been?
Next time I had his head
near me, I tucked it tight
under my chin.
