I Can’t Believe I Had You

I hardly remember anything but a bittersweet ache searing in my sternum, the spring three years ago I abjured mind and body, becoming the quiet tremor before tears. Exhausted, a satchel of bones that she can’t even situate right, wrinkled sheets over only her right side because the strength of extending an arm above the plane of her torso too much. Fearing the space between the pillow trim and headboard, a divet where your head might fall in, her cheeks beet red with the heat of blood pooling in them, adam's apple straining against the kink in her neck that can’t drag up. Muscles idle, waiting for an influx of calcium or sodium that never comes, relying on anger to wrench her body to motion. 

a soft wind and the scent of damp earth rustles the white voile. It rained this morning, heavy-lidded mahogany eyes of morning,  and the twinkling opening of Emmit Fenn’s “I Can’t Believe I Had You” fills me with the most peculiar feeling, almost like  retrospective fondness for life  as if I can imagine it resonating After. I never think about what’s happening as tragic, but this morning  you got to me a little but beating an animal to silence is only sad if its  a precedent applied to other people true atonement comes at a cost cold-heat of hunger and protein leaking in my feet 

you were just doing your job and I ascribe intention to everything  three in the morning and I sense my neck hitch back, everything melding heavy and awkward on the mattress  an angel thread his hands beneath me as if “of course you couldn’t”  when the body has no shame but the mind wants it collecting in his arms a kile split wide open, fingers spread against raw skin where it just can’t suture  unflinching, smiling down with sable eyes bright, warm, and kind his sentience stark against this unfeeling thing,  for seven months numbing it out  for three years swallowing it down  suddenly trying not to cry