e— was incoherent
laying in the midst of
a bloody sheet
there was nothing to waste
it was her own blood
and she would be fine
she was, first, a queen

e— was a singular bruise
a target in the linens
saying to the ceiling that she loved me
calling for me through
the crisis of her body
the crisis of my turning away

e— was so lovely
that was the thing they couldn’t take
from my memory or the world:
the illogical consideration
of her architecture
the warmth and solid ground of her presence

e— was going to live
and i lay down beside her
in that vulnerability
with chips of rare ice for her forehead
fermented ginger for her mouth
apologies she couldn’t comprehend

she could never be a stranger to me
the love was a constant presence
it needed no context
that was the lesson in her vulnerability
that was the way i returned to her

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