I Am

That is just how I am
am I right or wrong in it?
Well that seems like a trick with the light
a slight of hand.
A way of changing me
without my consent
adding on
where I swear there was nothing.
Where I was holding space for other words
bigger, braver words
more specific and less scary
Like peaceful
Serendipitous
Or at least hopeful
Or at least patient
because I am still waiting
for him to understand.
That to boil people down
is to kill them.

The Montreal Apartment

I can’t write poems about cleaning the blood off the floor
because it hurts too much.
Not my blood
but
my blood.
I had an aunt once who was so soft spoken every word she said was delicate
but she is not home now.
She left the door locked
and blood on the floor
Where did she go with her gentle shaky hands?
Her books
Part oriental rugs
Part cooking and fashion instructional
Part erotic art
Part nursing textbook
She is not dead yet
like I was not dead
yet.
We are making a pile of things that are
hers that are garbage
I am trying not to
think about what I am doing.
Lots of things are dirty
rubber gloves
I find a card that jokes about how heaven turns out to taste like vodka
I read it out loud to my brother
I can’t bear it alone
he looks down and away as though I have slowly slapped him
towards the bed I steer away from believing she has been sleeping on
I am not that brave.
The clouds of brown stains turn to black in one corner
a cool fall breeze comes through the window and sweeps across my warm neck
I throw the card away.
When we leave there isn’t blood on the floor.
There is an unfamiliar door
accidentally slammed shut
and a long drive home.