It’s selfish to wish myself in your nightmare

but I do—as your shoulder, your cheek;

the hospital wall that you slammed

your fists against & screamed

into the sky. It’s selfish to wish

those years of yours mine, so why

 

not add to the list: playmate, play-

thing, first kiss, because when your lips

take me back years I can’t stop

watching them tremble, when your eyes

look up to the clouds I can’t

 

see anything but your thin tears,

because when your fingers toy

with stalks of grass it takes

all the air I can stuff in my lungs

not to burst out, cry, press

your body into the earth beneath

 

the weight of mine, & years.

Beneath a barren tree, on a rock

overlooking the sea, you pick flowers.

Strip leaves, then stems, all you can spare

until they float. The grave is too far out

 

& behind. With a breath, you send

coral petals on wind, then water.

Flower girl, dream girl, earth girl

of wood & stone & saltwater, take me

back to the brink of death, home

& introduce me to him as yours

 

the way they do in the movies,

your hair slicked back & in mine

a flower you’ve picked & stripped.

Hold my hand, your breath. Eyes open.

I’ll break the moment you break.