POEM A DAY – July 25

maybe

as adults we use the same words
we maybe even feel the same feelings
about our bodies, about the dis-eases
that challenge our guts and our joints

we maybe even pray to the same marys
and dance to the same madonna, it’s
possible our mother wound is the same
shape… but I’m fairly certain it’s not

the same size. I wonder if yours still
oozes or if you’ve boxed it and put
it away in some room you locked up
or maybe set fire to. I feel like burning

is a ritual for you. indoor fires were
always the rage, your rage. I’ve been
thinking about our samenesses and
wondering how I can change their

textures. I’m curious about the alchemy
of our shared suffering, if there’s an
incantation I can throw into your
throat so you can taste my frayed

love for you. because, I love you.
I can’t explain how or why there’s
no action in it. I can’t pick it up and
show you. maybe it’s because

when you burned and buried me
I believed it was an actual death.
but I’m not dead. I’m here. very
alive. your words on my tongue

maybe