139. Now:

I can do things
Like wear heels
And not worry
About being
Larger than you.
I can expand myself
Without apology,
Without
Guilt.

138.

I have tried
to write about this
for two
years. Did you know
that a cancer patient's earlobes
will curl
when the person
is close
to death?
That is the best I can tell of
any of it,
this beast.

137.

I became
what you wanted
in the dark,

and now every constellation
knows
my name.

136.

Speaking to you
Opens the dark tunnel
If I must
I choose the lilacs
Blooming in spring
Over the edge
Of the knife.

135.

A man in front of me
in a subway tunnel,
wearing your cologne.
At home, on the floor
of the bathtub,
I purge the rest of you
from my body.

134.

My kitchen smells like you
in springtime, morning.
Brewing coffee, sliced melons,
my hair damp across my cheeks.
This, a first, has made me
want to surrender Boston.
Last night I dreamed
that I gave you a black eye
without touching you.
You said it was because
we weren't speaking.
I know.

133.

I did not come home last night.
I drank gin and tonics that did not taste
like you. I went to bed dizzy,
did not recognize the ceiling, the shape
of the bathroom light switch.
I am thinking about getting another tattoo.
Perhaps in a year, most of my visible skin
will look foreign to you.
This thought should not be appealing.
Things keep faltering.
I am trying not to be a machine.
The trees in my part of town
look as though they've been dipped in cotton.
I can not even remember whether it's oak or maple
outside of your bedroom window.