Your Name on It

There were petals in our garden 
Roses that you helped me scatter
Just as you paraded your excuses 

In a pair of mismatched socks 
I join the joggers in the park 
Terrified of aging yet 
Growing frail amidst every 
Moment made of you 

Replaying all your explanations 
I discover undulations 
In the prairies of your promises;
How might I subsist on slipshod mental
Triages when all that’s left 
Is talk of dying 
This vertigo’s inopportune  

You rearrange the fragments of my art;
In light of you 
Erato seems to whimper 
Calliope has left her throne 

I am an erotic 
Bathsheba taken from the Hardy 
Story falling underneath 
The soldier’s swordplay 
Wondering why women 
Never dare to speak

Alongside your defensive stories
You ask me how I’ve been

I am not immeasurably 
Invulnerable to your second coming 
I have left my jewelry 
Scattered on the table 

Your voice is violent in its outpour
Yet I’ve always been a fan of summer storms

Unsettled and uncouth
I inhale wafts of lavender and mint leaves 
Rubbing ointment through my chest 
I have not made my bed in days 

Your humor is nomadic
Irony pervades your questions
Yet perhaps another day 
I’ll treat this fever rising from
These colloquies with you 

It’s not about a dignity
That’s disassociated from your name
It is, rather, a certain disappointment
That’s always holding hands 
With the memory of you