Essays poem

You said

that box had holes

large enough to let you

see, but small enough

to keep you in.

You couldn’t stretch couldn’t

stand broken bones, broken

dreams unbroken will: small

victories won

at great expense.

And you tried to think

of me—here—waiting.

You told me that

you used to drink

your piss. “Kept me alive,”

you said.

And I have tried

to imagine those things

you say still haunt.

But no context in pain

admits me to your rancid dreams.

And I was always safe.

Always safe.

You’ve said that you’re OK now:

“It’s over, done.”

But every time we kiss

there’s just a hint

of urine

on your breath. 3 April 2013

(thanks to Bruce Weigl)