it takes six years, they say
to cleanse your policy from my brain
you, who, gazing out the tower window
glanced over your bare shoulder
a look of abjection, cutting fingers on semi-colons
you strung your guts around my room
Christmas lights and tinsel to celebrate
throwing bouquets of sunflowers on her grave
run away from that upturned dirt
and maybe his cheekbones will keep you sane
you never let me repeat it
but I won’t forget his palms pressing
the blade of a baseball bat into mine
beating mailboxes, they said, while
I lowered myself on the bench press
with my eyes, I took his hand
it was past closing time, we were alone
dragging heavy feet up a rickety staircase
the world grew small, nostalgic
leaving him with his thoughts in darkness
I’ll never know if he trained in fire science
but we used to flicker signals in
brake lights and brights at the end of our shifts
you never let me forget
the weight of organs in my chest
your arteries never belonged to me
plucking roses to kiss their petals
discard them like used tissues in the end
it’s not my story, I won’t pretend otherwise
he called for a tube I didn’t know how to prepare
thinks I’m a paramedic, some nights
disappoint him another time, again and again
call the medical examiner from Western
tell her you’re tired of feeling your heart beating
went to the counter to return my disenchantment
but I lost my copy of the receipt
in the clutter of the torn-up basement
her idea of fun includes eyeballs sliding
from sockets, dangling by optic nerves
you try too hard to understand the recipe for—
I told you how to love her
when the seasonal memories come on,
demanding the keys to her city before laying siege—
the outbreak of Plague makes it easy but
I told him how to love me
plugging music in my ears, placing pencil in my hand
all to banish the despondency
you never like to see
the only space I ever commanded
that bathroom on 129th avenue, you know
the one with the extra-small stalls for hiding sick bodies
reminds me of the pocket of time where
he drank himself to death in his mother’s house
you could hear the woman snoring down the hall
while we undressed on the leather couch
under the cover of shattered hearts, no blankets
I didn’t care if he lived or lied—
you expect him to rescue you from seasonal
tragedies, the ones that come with the changing leaves
yellow orange red but not green
he’s just another ambiguous pronoun in the story
string them along the way I used to
design necklaces with glass beads
she asked me why I was so sad
in the night, I wrote the answer on her back
inebriated, she didn’t notice the names
scrawled with fingers on the fabric
now I’m composing broken lines at red lights
it takes six years, they say
to cleanse your policy from my brain
since then, I’ve learned new terminology
post-resus care: screaming until I taste
blood in the back of my throat,
ears ringing & body numb with psychological gunshots
resounding, always re-sounding
the scenes you will write to forget
I tried explaining this in Spanish
but the language barrier kept the audience unaware
it’s not my story, I won’t pretend otherwise
to have saved, on our fourth mensiversary, a dying man’s life
he climbed in the ambulance after the fact
directed all his conversation to the passenger in the back
there was rain on the windshield, I think
but, even in the black yawn of early morning,
there were autumn leaves blinding my vision
I realized the tragedy in loving the man
when every season, the trees will bloom again
Just Thoughts 