Packing for the new apartment, I think of you
I’m packing my Buddha statue
in the bag you knitted for me.
Do you even remember it anymore?
Do you remember sitting in our bed,
your back against the pillows that multiplied
like rabbits, carefully counting each stitch
while I counted each breath?
Do you remember the words you wrote
on the first pages of the notebook
you gave me as I left?
It may not seem like it when you read this,
but I’ve been doing better since that night
when you called to tell me that
it didn’t matter that much after all.
You didn’t use those words, but you let me know.
I don’t write angry poems. I really don’t.
It’s just that putting the Buddha back in the bag
was too big a metaphor to avoid.
I’m embarrassed to say it, but I’d still drop
everything if you called and told me to.
Maybe that’s not healthy. I don’t know.
But I know that sometimes you find
somebody who makes all the little gears
turn like they’re supposed to. Makes all the little
wheels in the lock click into place so you can
open up what’s inside you and let her in.
28 December 2012
Auburn, AL
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