9 January, 2018
WAITING FOR LEAVES
Your brain had already started unmaking the rest
of you: nothing but gray meat, memories unspooling
so rapidly they became entangled, became knotted.
And the medication had stopped working, but still, I fed you
the little blue pills, the ones that reminded me of the little blue
butterflies you said Satan sent us—gifts of unforgivable evil—controllers
of both the weather and the television—arrival predicated by sudden
downpour and static flickering. In defense of the azalea bush still clinging
to the first-floor bricks, we’d press cherries to the roofs of our mouths
while standing in the kitchen, waiting to bite the skin until we had pushed
past the screen door, when precipitation, mixed with juice, ran down
our chins like a mighty river of blood, and we spat the pits into the air
like throwing stars we hoped would tear through their tissue
paper wings. One day, I fumbled the dislodge, tripped and swallowed
the stone, and you told me it was only a matter of time—seed sown
in the stomach, nerves replaced by roots—a tree would surely
sprout through the top of my head, so tall, we’d have to call
the fire department, call anyone, to chop it down. But there were no
extra hairs, there was no germination, no fruit. There was no
extra anything, and when they told me you didn’t have much time left,
and there were no other options, I snuck two crimson
globes into your room, carried them in my back pocket,
and said, No, don’t spit that out. Yes, swallow it, swallow all
of it. Here, I’ll do it with you. Open your lips, stick out
your tongue, there you go—but now you’re buried, long gone,
and I’m still here waiting for leaves to climb out of the dirt.