—for Joanne
I’m acting in a play
about a workaholic writer
who visits a dying man every Tuesday.
I’m tying a double Windsor
without a mirror. Feeling the shape of it.
As I’m feeling the shape of it, repeating
the end of one sentence
with the beginning of the next
so that, when the time comes,
the words will flow—
thoughtless, seamless.
I threw it away the past;
I threw it away the past;
I threw it away the past
was the past, forget it. I’m remembering
your thumbnail scraping
the back of my hand,
feeling the shape of it
under the white sheet.
You’re repeating yourself
more and more. Struggling
to see if the flowers need replacing.
You’re waiting for me to visit.
I promised, but I’m staying home.
I’m sick. I wore a mask
at work all day. I’m acting
in a play. I’m tired
of slipping in and out of time.
If another word leaves me
I’ll be alone.
I’m pulling the knot to my neck,
imagining all the flowers
going dark. All of my being, you said,
is wrapped up in all of your being.
I’m repeating it because I’m afraid
of the blinding light, that I’ll open
my mouth and nothing will come out.
