Hands, Wrists, Teeth
Locked you in the shed when you came back screaming.
I know maybe that wasn’t the welcome you were hoping for –
you were Lazarus for me, holy in your rotting clothes.
I remember a few years ago you brought home a little plant
precious in its tiny pot; it staggered under the frosts that spring
clawed its way back to green, died again, did the same. You were
so patient with it, even when I told you just to let it die.
I sat with my back against the door so that I could listen to you breathe.
You were breathing, and between breaths you told me that
you’d missed me; you wanted to touch me; you missed watching me sleep.
That last one made me shudder a bit. I imagined us curled in our shared bed
months ago before any of this happened, and you played with my hair
and when you did you left gold-leaf traces of death strewn through it. Enough
was enough. I unlocked the door but didn’t go inside.
You came to me instead, the way you always did
Sunday mornings with the paper and a lottery ticket. When it came down to it
you always picked the unlucky numbers. You didn’t touch me the way
you wanted; you walked around until I was looking at you, pulled my eyes to you
like a loose thread. Hanging. Red.
You used to
kiss me, hands, wrists, teeth. I pulled my eyes into a saline kaleidoscope
imagined you were not dead
just dirty. I reached for your face through the haze, and you turned your
cold mouth to my hand like it was everything you wanted.
“Why were you screaming?” I asked. I felt you smile against my palm
so dry. “You’ve always been a heavy sleeper,” you replied.
I opened my eyes. Stepped forward. Gave you my throat
my hands
my wrists
my teeth.
“Then wake me up,” I said.
Daisy Harris
Inspired in part by this excellent poem: https://www.instagram.com/p/B-cAIr1FaGy/
Daisy Harris Poetry 