Your Pain Reminds Me of Who I Won’t Be

Your Pain Reminds Me of Who I Won’t Be

by Meg Tuite


An MRI finds a leak
inside your deflating
lungs and I hear you
again

like the tub when
it sucks in the shedding
hair and stagnant
parts of us
swirling into the drain

you begin to wheeze
like the wind
knocked out of us

our bed
broad with the history
of aching hips

a fetal back-to-back position
that shapes us into an inkblot
of geometry
of longing,
long dried up
petrified petals

the prayer plant
we attempted to revive
moving it from place to place
sun        no sun
water     no water

we lay on our backs
hands folded on our stomachs
that have enlarged
from an appetite

that used to be
in our groins

and now only
blooms in our
gut

 

-refers from the word “geometry” in Val Dering Rojas’ poem Breakfast, 7am

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