HOME | DD

Description
I microwave a mug of tears, mostly
my own, for a minute
or so, till they're hot.

Because I am hungry, I toast
a bagel to go with them.
I clean out the crumb tray. I am in no hurry
to write this poem.

I use Mary's homemade jam,
and lagniappe some fresh strawberries.

You would imagine the tears
would taste bitter, as they often do
in poems and songs, but they are
just plain, salty tears.

I curl on the love-seat, faded and ripped,
my winter writing place, set my mug
on the window sill. The cat jumps onto my lap.
Nudging him with my elbow, I begin
to form all the wrong words. Mistake
after stupid mistake leaves my fingers
like dialing your number
after I've just hung up the phone
when I know how you feel
about weakness and cowardice,
or taking your hand
in the waiting room,
when you how don't like public displays,
and I'm sure when you read this
you'll say, "I don't know
what you mean" and look at me
blankly, like I wish my screen still did.

I breathe, and take a sip of hot tears.