The intake of air
that follows your name
coats my diaphragm
in ice.
The sharp clicks of consonants
the lulls in my phrasing
clink the frozen weight
against my ribs,
pieces of muscle
scattering about the body cavity.
When I am sleeping
(when there is no me
without you)
Melting occurs.
I am sick today.
When I bend my fingers
around the spoon
and steering wheel
the little pieces of you
jab into my veins,
sharper still in the central canals
the aorta.
I don’t know much
about illness, except
that Motrin and Tylenol
are not the same thing .
I do know that converting
oxygen to carbon monoxide
is a million tiny victories.
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