Hand me a bandage. Earlier, I cut myself. Relax,
my hand shower-slipped. Make no mistake.
I’m glad to have awkward hands -- strong fingers
ready-made to release and bind, but I have a bone
to pick with my magic mind. Round world, strange
love becomes my new style, cutting up every science.
Our skin isn't solid at all; we are forever blending
into some couch. You are made of smog, smoke,
fog, steam, dust, an intangible buffet, a cirrus cloud,
a vast scab, a gorgeous vapor. Life is energy-made --
true hand holds are never locked. Your shoulders
are static rather than bone, but I still believe
you face me, looking stunned and hot, grin-trapped.
Something hangs between us – a fight never fought,
a loss never lost, and the irresistible, makeup screw.
To our mad, unshakably silent lives -- from the dirty,
terrible laundry to the lightest sheets. Sometimes,
I see your shavings. When the intruders, my panic,
my blade war comes, I feel you hold me close,
breathing one beat ahead of me, just in time, cutting
the quiet in two. Sound is our knife. I see our small
house, white paint peeling on the left, the heart side.
I see you call the painter. I see me call the gutter man.
I see our swing, our kitchen, our late night dinner --
orange fish on green plates, no napkin, bare clean
kitchen, the scent of it. The table, the perfect circle.
And no matter how the meal ends -- empty or full,
real or imagined -- even if I could, even if I should,
I wouldn't take anything back. Hand me a bandage.
I see us sit down at the same time, sinking into high-
backed, black, plastic chairs, praying and laughing
and digging in, whether or not people need to eat