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

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

“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

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

dividing time by years made sense for the aztecs
they clocked the cycle had begun anew
the ice had melted just like before
they guessed—crossing all their fingers—
that it would again

walt whitman divided time by breaths
his line breaks echoing his full throat

cross-legged on new year’s morning,
I think that I don’t want to divide time at all
just one long hum
to keep the beat

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.

I want you to tell me
the truth about my hands
and what they are worth to you

will you grant me clemency
when they blister and crack
when they redden, raw

up close, it’s no secret that
beneath the skin, there is something
roiling

and I want to know if I should
keep you at a distance

shrink the shapes down to fit in your hands
they are not legible like they used to be, there is no
beginning or end or denouement
there is just the dust that settles once you’ve forgotten for long enough

it’s not ever really long enough for your shoulders, though
they twist with knots you can’t visualize, so deep your
fingers stiffen and your eyes look hollow
remembering is harder

don’t breathe as you cross the street, you could catch it
you darkly note that it doesn’t really matter, he’s
already gone
what difference does a mask make

but you hope it does
and you haven’t yet let go of thinking when will it end

though more and more it’s met with
I can probably live like this
and whiskey

I keep you close by.

it’s by the book to watch,
to tether, to keep you walking straight—
I believe in order—but
I can’t say aloud that that’s not why

whispered, barely:
it's, instead, because
without locks, I think you’d go
if I looked away, I’m afraid you’d go

your voice is vertical somehow
mine is hoarse, still

I remember shouting
into pillows, hardly muted
playing back your new york inflections
like a cassette

constructive critiques
transcribed in your palm lines
obscured by clenched muscles
I didn’t know what was written on the last page

I do now
it’s not much

when I think about the color of my eyes
I think of blue-green
I think of gray, sometimes, when I’m feeling replaceable
I usually don’t think of the red
veins twisting through white
or the red veil covering all of it in the morning
when I blink awake
enervated by all the waking I did in the dark
instead of resting

when I think about the color of your eyes
if I’m being honest
I can’t remember what it was

I was wearing a sweatshirt with an embroidered bluejay on it when this stranger
whacked my shoulder with his hand
gestured behind me, meaning look back there
where a woman, about my age, sat idling at the stop sign
calling something to me that I couldn’t hear—
did I know her from somewhere? Had she been trying to say hello?
Had I dropped something on the crosswalk?

Confused, I turned back around
and the stranger flipped me off
continued walking briskly, hardly having broken his gait
though to me it had been a full minute since he’d touched me

I could hear the woman now, as I came back to myself
Are you all good? Ah, he wasn’t pointing to her, she was just where he was pointing
I was, but thank you so much for checking
She said he’d been following me so closely for a block
and she didn’t love the look of it
I could hardly hold my blossoming heart inside, straining against the bluejay
for her otherworldly kindness

I took a different route back to my apartment, in case he was waiting for me ahead
I scrutinized my corner for his dark sweatshirt and pale face
but fortunately
I remembered hers much better

sometimes I close my eyes
imagine I’m blind
shapes and light veiled, soft
day and night melting, overlapping
rain and sun both bright

words you said and hums you
may have made
I can’t remember, now
memory and vision criss-cross
past and daydream clasping hands

when I open them, you dissipate
each time I call you back
growing warmer

I.

switching to lamps from the overhead has
warmed the room modestly
but it’s not what the fire once was
as I tighten my robe and eat the
cranberries from the sauce one by one
tv buzzing  


II.

I wanted to keep lightly tethered
ask you how you’re holding up, sometimes
take photos off the walls, but
move them to the basement, not the trash

but you insisted—and I oblige
no talking, no remembering
****, sorry
I forgot


III.

I end the year with hardened skin
on my left index finger
on my lower lip
on my heel
scratching until there's blood, and then
this is the resolution:
stop stop stop stop stop

it’s harder each time to take myself seriously when I promise

I sketch you in Vivid Tangerine,
my Crayola memory frantic to get you down
before you’re gone again.

My therapist and you are at odds.
Treating OCD, she says, is about
desensitizing,
taking the power from the thought,
but you, the thought, are—

the scab on my lower lip
that every day, I wake and say
today, I will leave it alone
today, it will start to close

and then when I’m alone I crack it open
because the peel is satisfying, sure
but so is the pain itself,
and that’s the part I didn’t tell my therapist.

I think if I keep you surreal,
neon,
I can keep you a little longer.

somewhere on a peeling windowsill,
I am starting over.
I am crawling under paint chips
to reemerge with six legs
strong enough to lift things heavier than me.

somewhere in a library basement,
I am learning how to speak.
how to hold my tongue to the roof of my mouth
when I’m quiet.
how to keep my teeth straight
for aesthetics
and for vegetables.

somewhere in a moving airplane,
I am breathing in, breathing out.
I am breathing in, breathing out.
I am wiggling my toes to feel that this is temporary
the ground will be there in the evening
when I land.

somewhere in a coffee shop,
I am behind the counter,
asking beautiful people
what’ll it be
and I am at the counter,
holding warm soy milk on my tongue
and I am outside,
squinting in the sun,
strong enough to lift things heavier than me.