Astonishing, the smallness
of the things that make me
feel distant from you. As when the tiniest
stitch comes loose and beadwork
splatters the tiles, or a cell
has the mind to divide, and soon
the brain can’t breathe. When I tell you
I’m sick and can’t visit, you answer
without disappointment, just
“Come another time then.” Artifacts
in the cracks of harsh climates
captivate you like a zinnia
in an olive woman’s cleavage,
and you’re living, studying,
among others who love the soil
of old burial sites pilled beneath their nails.

You’ve read so much of everything
I’ll never catch up.
Once I was only threatened
by the gentle, cerebral boyfriends
I dreamt up for you; now I rival
the towering potency
of knowledge itself. I fear us standing
at our morning window, my eyes tracing
your cheekbones, your hands
to convince me you’re mine,
while your eyes, child-wide,
strain to swallow every drop
of the sky’s relentless light.