If my marriage were a woman
We slept ear to ear
and dreams flitted between our heads
like lightning bugs singing to each other
in Morse code
and we awoke.
You asked, again: You always dream of her.
and as i brushed my teeth i said to it,
to you, yes.
Who is she?
She is sick.
She is sick? you frowned and i, yes,
from lugging suitcases full of unridden trains
and half-written thank you letters that
spit contagious bitterness, silvery
sludge that hisses you have not given back what i let you borrow
but isn’t that love? taking things that cannot be given
—sick! she is sick
with a moth-eaten fever,
scabby holes ripping
through her forehead and chest,
all the thingsthatcannotbegivenback dripping
from her fingers, clinging
to her eyelashes—