“Are you okay?”,
my wife asks
when I cough.

“No. I’m fine.
Yes. I’m not”,
I respond,

stumping her
in the poetic irony
of words that

encompass the
yes and no
and the in between.

She flips the finger
at me and I return
the bird to the nest.

We go back to our life
and our tablets,
the drip, drip of my chemo
and I wonder about okay.

“No.  You’re fine.
Yes. You’re not.”,
the bag stares in response.

I told him,
"If I could, I would gouge out my eyes,
so that you can see what I see.
I would rip out my heart,
so you could see who it really beats for."

He told me,
"If I could, I would chop off my hands,
so that you could touch heaven.
I would peel off my skin,
so you can be warm."

We traded our bodies,
and we learned where we stood.
I had the smell of his skin;
he had the beating of my heart.

people tell me i’m
lucky because at least i lost
him knowing that he
loved me, at least it wasn’t as painful as a
breakup. if this isn’t
pain then please tell me words for this swallowing
wound in the middle of my
chest, explain how i can’t find my own
hands even in broad
daylight and every time i think i
see him around our
house i know to take it as a
sign that i need to call my shrink back up, tell her
about the ghost at the core of my
life.

i can still feel his
hands in mine, long pianist man
fingers and encompassing
palms, wide open like a
map soaked in
blood.

he was so long
gone by the time that they
found him, his own fragile
mother couldn’t identify the
body, i was the only
one who knew how my hands were supposed to fit his
hips, the only good part of him
left.

my doctor tells me that i’ve passed the threshold for
grief, this isn’t healthy, she
tells me. how am i expected to know the meaning of that
word when the only thing i can
explain is the incessant ringing in my
ear, the sound of the
bullet that went farther than i ever
dared.

we were supposed to get
married, he just didn’t have the
money, but he gave me everything else off his very own
back. at night i stay up repeating the names of the
children we were going to
have, all three of
them. now they seem like more of an
insult to the holy
trinity.

god, how did you feel when satan
fell? i demand you on your
knees, begging me to
believe in you again. do you know how it feels to be in love with a
ghost?

when we were
kids my best friend said she
wanted to be famous when she grew
up, she wanted to have her name in the
papers.  

in third grade she moved to new york
city, where they have billboards of famous people on every
corner.

in third grade too much was
happening to me at
once and I never had the time to
miss her.

I just found out she died of an
asthma attack six
months ago.

I heard she was the first child to
die from her hometown in more than fifty
years.

I guess she got her picture in the
paper, even if she never
grew up.

if you are ever at a bus
stop then take a good look at the person not standing near
everyone and know that this person is a
writer. know that their hands are in
pain and know that they have cried themselves
dry in front of darkened
mirrors because they can’t stand the sight of
themselves. know that the night into which their lover
fled is that which owns their
soul. they know much more than
you yet they would give anything
not to understand. they’re wearing long sleeves for a
reason and they are taking the
bus only because they know that their life has no
purpose, no more than that of an abandoned
cigarette. know that these people with the very melancholy
eyes and the pigeon-toed
feet are writers and that they will love
you even when they can’t
love themselves.

I might've been an only
child but I was never the
favourite. you trailed behind us at every
social event, pulling on my
hair and stepping on the backs of my
shoes. the bottoms of them were so
worn out from years of me trying to run
away that I could feel every footstep in my
lungs. at christmas none of my presents could be
wrapped, because we'd learned the first
year that it wasn't a good
idea. she made me spend hours tearing it off in a straight
line, using a ruler as
guidance. I was too young to read the
numbers on it. this year, I bought her a
necklace. I knew I had to give her something even though I wanted to
take. she never mentioned it on our Christmas cards, but it was
there, it was
there in the spacing of our
names and the negative space between our warm
bodies; we weren't allowed to
touch. she hates you so
much that she could never bear
leaving you. vacuums became my
lullaby and my father quickly grew
used to never getting kissed on the
mouth. I hate you. you were a thorn
stuck into the centrepiece of our perfect
family, and my psychotherapist says you're the
reason I still let myself
bleed.

Remembering the first time you kissed me kinda hurts
Because you never asked if I wanted it
It's strange that where we came from is a place of such pain
Such malice and misunderstanding
The floor there is still stained from my tears
Same with your pillow cases
And my old tee shirts
     (do you remember the first time you cried on me?)
I do

I visit sometimes
Lay down in the soft embrace of your cat haired covered sheets
     (we have the same sheets)
Close my eyes and feel your weight
I don't resent you anymore
I never would've resented you if I'd known you back then
But I didn't
I knew black slacks
An Iron Maiden tee
     (I have the same one)
A [REDACTED] license plate

I open my eyes and
You walk in with a pizza
     (Dominos, they had a 50% promotion)
It has sausage and spinach on your half
Mushrooms and green olives on mine
I'm glad I know you now