Will you give me your groans,
your breaths, your tears,
will you bury them where I can find them?
Will you bake the soil, tear out the grass,
until the ground is parched and lifeless and still?
Will you lend me your worst memories
so I can turn them into tiny rolls of film
for you to play back over and over
in my private theater,
and will you recite the verses I chant
like you were a schoolchild at a yardstick’s
mercy? I hope you would think
nothing of it all, only breathe it in
as easily as air—for in truth there is no
difference between you and I.
I was born merely to fill your gaps;
give in, and you would
not even notice how the smoke pushes
out the oxygen
and settles all through your lungs
until you can’t escape its sting
without swallowing your breath back down,
and keeping it there,
trapping it there,
waiting for your weight
your presence
to fade
as unnoticed as
a child’s
whisper.
You would not even remember
to open your eyes before they
became blank puddles,
or to dig up the scraps you buried under
soil that was once damp
or to release your grip on
the wind-up key
that’s become
a permanent
imprint
on your palm—
You could never run
never yell
never cry
never uncoil the film
never feel the breeze on your skin
never speak with your own mouth
never breathe your own breath
never know what it
was all supposed to be
before I came—
never rip the
boards from
the windows
never break
through
the glass
never
see the
warm sun
dance on your
bloodied
bandaged
hands without
shrinking from
its
touch
and
coming
back
to me,
to the
shade,
where
you’ll
always
be
safe,
always.
