I was on the phone with her when she made the first incision
Felt the knife slice,
Heard her flaps flip
--off—
And I knew the skin was gone.
A wince at the wound escaped her lips.
Then she sipped her w(h)ine and went
Right on talking about the Weather.
“Bella,” I said, “Bella, what you done?”
She laughed: “There’s so much pain, there’s no room for pleasure.”
When the paramedics got there,
They found her passed out, pants down,
Blood pooling around her hips
And what used to be her lips.
She said she’d been listening to the wrong mouth,
And she was tired of getting killed by triggers
From the south.
In the ambulance, she reached for me,
Whisper-screamed:
“Be my Midas,
Make me yours,
Make me gold.
Carry me in your pocket
Wherever you go.”
I wanted to.
Believe me, I always wanted to.
But I knew she wouldn’t fit
And I didn’t want to take
The piece she’d cut off for me,
So while she was sleeping in the surgery,
I held her hand and let God hold her heart.
I reached in and ripped off
A sliver of her pain,
Tied it around my waist,
And let myself turn emerald.
We are your wounds,
Your lost loves,
The ones who promised they’d never leave,
Then left.
No matter how much you try to slice us
Out of your hearts, mind, and skin,
We are still there because you loved us once.
And we loved you too.
I gave her hand one last squeeze,
Got my coat,
Turned to leave,
And asked God if in the future
Her weather might be better
And come to better ends.
