It’s the best
when the light from the ceiling fan
hits your shoulder blades like sand dunes
gilding your mild tan, smooth skin
over muscle and dashed
with the occasional sunspot I hope
never becomes cancerous.
It’s the best
when I tell you a joke
about Hellen Keller
reading a basketball for twenty minutes
and in your infinite wholesomeness, you
entertain the possibilities
of spherical braille.
It’s the best
when I ask if you’ll still like me
if I’m dying, to which you say
of course
so I say okay what if I’m not dying
what if I’m just a little bit I don’t know
maimed
and you reassure me that yes, even
if I were recovering from a coma,
you would still be there
and trust me, the recovery is harder
than the deep, indefinite sleep.
And if I were to die, get maimed, be comatose
I trust in your honesty when you say
you’d adopt my ferret –
you’re really the only person
he would want to live with,
and in that notion, I second him
while I add to my collection,
categorizing memories and polishing moments in time
of all the ways that you and I
are improved through being us.
Hooloovoo Blues 