Fifty-nine. The blur between fingers.

He buries his face into my hair and inhales.
If I live anywhere in his body,
I live in his lungs. There are better organs
I'm sure, but it's warm here too,
and most of the sound stays away.

Sometimes in the middle of the night,
I wake up to feel my spine against the wall.
I don't mean to make this all about bodies
but we are the sort of people whose faith is
Tangibility, and there is little room
for dreamy motions or romantic confessions.
Some mornings, I don't even stay for coffee.

How do I explain then, the nova in my stomach,
and the bird in my throat who, as time passes,
beats his wings more furiously. I have to keep
my mouth closed to prevent feathers
from bursting out. And oh, what trouble it would be
if a song escaped. What beautiful trouble
it would do to our small little worlds.

Fifty-eight. Remember,

it was before February
and you would hear other people say things,
lovely things or aching things,
and they'd all make the right sort of sense
as they tied themselves around your throat.
Truths such as, "The heart wants
what the heart wants," and
"You are the reason that I'm losing sleep."
Winter can be quite deadening
and there were reasons to be careful,
reasons not to be careful, and figuring out
where to put the line down was tricky business.
Remember, when the body was there
but you weren't allowed to touch it.
It shook you awake, wanting something again,
as selfish as it was. "I would like
to kiss you." Then you got what you wanted
and weren't sure if you deserved it.
One day you ask him to leave with you,
and he says no. You weren't sure
if you deserved that either.
So instead of leaving town, you put the sides
of your shoes together, but something
still didn't make sense. You tried other movements.
Switched sides of the bed. Hung new curtains.
By July, you were arranging the silverware
in the drawer every other day.
"I'm afraid it's time for goodbye again."

Fifty-seven.

There are emptied out frames
all over the floor, a blue cup of water,
and no scientist has been able to prove
that people get what they need.
Someone, somewhere, maybe in Germany or Sydney
or Mauritania or North Dakota
claims that they want to understand.
Shift the perspective:

Letters from other states say
You deserve to be happy
and
I am so proud.

Five hundred kilometers away
a young man discovers that he is still a human being
when he begins crying uncontrollably
into a bowl of oatmeal. Meanwhile,
you lament about fairness while brushing your teeth
over a pristine porcelain sink, because, after all,
nobody ever offers to come over when you are decidedly
falling apart into your morning cereal.

The themes progress. Evolve like animals.

We find the rooms inside ourselves
and then decide what to do with them.
Here: The doors will not be equipped with locks
and the windows will always remain open at least
one inch. Nobody will be a prisoner but sometimes,
sometimes a person will ask why you didn't try
to keep them. Explain that you always kept the tea warm
and eventually added furniture specifically for them,
hung up their favorite painting next to your
favorite painting, but never gathered up the guts
to ask the Important Questions. Sorry.
Remember that this will not be good enough
and they will likely not forgive you.
Sweep the floor immediately, but neglect
to scrub the windowsills.

Sometimes,
we don't tell the truth.

Fifty-six. On viewing things from the outside, again.

The light is different now
than it was in February.
You say this is obvious
but I shifted seamlessly
through the seasons
with mint in my mouth.

You don't let anything happen.

Make the body become
a map. Make the body
become an alter.

So I'm not your muse.
I don't dip your wings in gold
or coat your throat with honey.
I don't make you want to write
symphonies, or cause birds
to fly out of your ears.
I see the way you look at girls
who have figured out what to do
with their voices in the middle
of crowded rooms. And that's
not me. We spend so much time saying,
This is not about you.

Meanwhile, an old lover
sends me postcards
from a tropical island,
and all of the wrong people
are handing me confessions and trying
to write me into their stories.
When do I get to be
part of yours?

Fifty-five.

I am less interested
in the shore.

Fifty-four.

You don't sleep facing me
and I don't mind anymore.
I've learned the shape of your back well --
where the spine curves,
the edge of your shoulder blade,
the constellations made up of freckles
and stretches of birthmarks.
I said, "It's like trying to put my hands
into something that doesn't exist,"
and I meant it.

Outside, the first thunderstorm of the season
is forming in the clouds above our houses.
You should be here. I've rolled that sentence
around in my mouth so many times
that it's tired of me.

The woman across the hall
thinks that we're in love with each other.
She's seen you come and go,
heard our laughter bounding up the stairs,
noted the frequency of your hands
gracing particular parts of me
(neck, collarbone, hip, ear)
but she doesn't know our story.
There. Lightning illuminating the curtain.

I haven't been afraid for eight days now.
The trick is simple. Pretend
that you have cancer. Pretend
there is a blood clot in your heart
and it's gotten bored with being there
and now it's on the way to your brain.
If the world ends tomorrow,
you might as well have something to show for it.

I think you see me
as Atwood sees oranges. This way,
it makes the most sense.
It's the only explanation I have.
People don't think they're going to grow up
and compare themselves to fruit or poems.
Is it too late to cut the table
in half?

Fifty-three.

Most mornings have you
with blood underneath your nails
and bruises on the sides of your knees.
It's inconvenient, but nothing more.
All is forgotten by the time you've dressed
and are pulling warm sheets from the dryer.

Things are getting hard again.
Chores. Like saying hello,
or sitting still in a car
as you drive two hours southeast.
One of you hates the silence. The other
finds it to be something like healing.
Someday, this disagreement will mess things up.
This disagreement has already started
to mess things up. You look at photographs
and say to your sister,
He doesn't kiss me like that,
and all she can do is pat your hand twice,
like she is tapping for a pulse.