often, I revisit the etchings we made
they betray our precise age then,
arrested—permanent,
for the moment—but tenuous
subject to the forward march
of you, of your outgrowing

while I remain
so much of me left back in pictures
in words on walls
so much of me still sixteen
so tightly woven
into the pale imagined future, faded
and the technicolor past
you gave me

so little of you, not nearly enough
but all there is

you stand up straighter now even on off days
the poetry not gone with the milk teeth after all

the electricity in his finger tips when he
says “how you doing, my friend”
and when he soothes the muscles in your calf
echoes, revives other muscles
their own memories of contracting so long ago

he knew how long it would take to heal you but
he’s only here until December

you will finish getting better, but you
won’t be like you were

as a child, you learn step lightly
step gentle but with power
don’t take what isn’t yours but
never leave what is
and especially don’t
hurt anyone
not ever

you, from the start, learned the first
strength was harder than a soft touch
but some things were fragile
sunday happiness
butterflies
and you tried to keep your word

leave the levain out overnight
don’t overwork it in the morning, knead gently
mist the inside of the dutch oven to create steam

this crust your crowning achievement, you
capture it from every angle
shy to dig in

savor the feeling of a chest swelled with pride

and then ugly, uninvited, the memory of his
swelled for a different reason, a
distraction

even on your sweetest day

“I will make it happen,” you said.
“Please trust me,” you said,
and you didn’t deserve it and so I didn’t.

And I’m better off now, but a little bit it
nudges me lightly that I was right, and you
were never coming back.

And mostly I hate everything you did
and said, and mostly I never want to
hear your voice again.

But a little bit it nudges me lightly
that a little bit, somewhere,
I’d give my right arm to have been wrong.

I’d give my right arm to tell you I
don’t forgive you
can never forgive you

and use my left to grab your hand and
forgive you

in the winter, ice had crept over her
slowly. it had hardened over her collarbone,
her hips, her tongue, her hands.
but on this february afternoon, the sky almost gaudy,
light spilling into her car and mixing
with his laugh,
it crackled
split
and melted.

you were hard most of the time
to read, to touch
I wouldn’t bring you home

now, though, when I ball my hands
I feel your silk-soft hair against them
remember all the colors of your chest

and you twinkle at the corners of my eyes