Of Our Remembrances

We don’t want to remember
what illuminates
the smallness of our hearts,
as on the morning
I saw you grip your knees
and break into a cold perspiration
that glistened on your face
like glycerin tears.

I wanted to be off,
out of the house,
and free of you–
the gnarly trees
of your age and fears
of what you called
your “naughty“ illness
that hindered my
run across the meadows.

Tucking the nitro tablet
under the log of your tongue,
I patted your hand
and released you
to your knot of pain.
I didn’t wait to see—
was the pill working?

I had make-up to apply,
last minute notes to make,
the laundry to take out.
You called to me,
asked if I would massage
the pain in your back and arm.
“I don’t have time,“ I said,
your howling eyes
following me out the door.

It was not the usual angina.
A flaw had sent you toppling.
Until today,
I can’t look into
my memory of your eyes.

Talk story

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