When our backs and legs are stiff in the morning and movement’s
Awkward, a hobbling gait to the left and right, and our hands are
Swollen with the ache that comes from grasping and missing,
The right hand forgetting what the Psalmist called its “cunning,”
When we forget what we swore to remember, nights
When the room slipped away from us, lips pressed hard against
Lips, your skin’s fabric beneath my hands’ clumsy touch,
When I strain to recall the soap smell of your neck on the pillow,
Your back’s warmth held against my chest beneath the covers,
Light cracking the shades, stubborn light—is this how
We’ll clutch at the world, at each other, at whatever desire meant?
Mi amor, what was it we desired, what we still desire?
When I want to fall asleep, I’ll pretend you’re next to me.
Published in Sheila-Na-Gig Inc. Fall-2025.
