The indignity
Of you who gave me life
On a cold, passion-filled, loveless night
Your young skin
On her old bones

You who hid from the cradle
The bat-catcher
The apologetic on the phone
Lying amidst the ruins of
Dreaming of

Scents and spices
Hot flames licking the back of your hand
Pastries dancing
On grilled lamb shanks

Do you often wake in the middle of the night
As I do
And wonder if there was something you could do
but didn't
And then willed yourself into

Nonexistence

The indignity
Of being forgotten by a part of yourself
Of losing your soul to the mistakes of the past