My body a foreign house, yours home.
Richard Howard, “The Difference”
I press cold hands under your shirt.
You push me away, pull me closer.
I say, poor circulation. My heart doesn’t like to do its job.
You offer me a perc, put the pill in my palm.
Its round shell is each skipped beat in this body.
I shake my head. Tap my nose,
the deviated septum there like an interjection.
Forever rift. Canyon of cartilage and bone.
Here, in my cigarette smoke bedroom, you
still don’t believe I’m in recovery.
I press the pill to your lips and watch you swallow
I kiss your mother’s lips tattooed on your neck,
the diamonds like sober stars in your ears.
I think I could stand here a long time—
breathing through this body’s confused chambers,
blue as the day I was born.