Bedside Poem

 

From the length of my arm you extend the air—

trickling breaths, each follicle branching 

toward my chest where beating,

I am beaten within

and can do no more 

than shudder.

 

When do we stop mentioning growing pains? 

My stretches yield marks on the skin

these days. Nobody grieves like the marked

who know

they can’t keep their scars from the world.

To you, each day I am brave and do not hide

the ways I have given in.

 

Who’s to say what all this means?

That we are still together at arm’s length.

Our truth is

we have each worn ourselves into the bed

leaving grooves each day, each year 

we are together, the same as two thickened trees 

sharing roots.