I want someone
far older than I am
to call me to his bedside
at the hazy edges of spring,
to sit me down in an old
porch chair, my hands folded,
precise as origami cranes
in my lap, to tell me
a story filled with mud,
bad liquor, tiny rooms,
rough forest, bugs stinging
his back, roots twisting
his ankles, the lack
of someone’s face
blanking his mind
of everything, even sleep,
heat turning his skin
from soft human skin
to a raw hide of stink,
drops of blood so tiny
at a knife’s rough cut
on his wrist it seemed even
his body could not give
him enough of anything—
and then, something happens
to make it the now,
tidy room, soft sheets,
paintings bright on walls,
clock ticking neat
as my throat gulping water
after a long cry, a bad dream.
I don’t care what form
the story takes, nor if
what he wanted
matches what I miss.
I only want someone
who longed for something
to grab the bare skin
of my arm in his hand,
and, eyes bright as dimes,
tell me, Listen.
Let me tell you
about the day
everything changed.