CALL ME BELOVED

Some of the wishes I carry like worry stones,
polished smooth and mine alone, because
I cannot add my weight to yours:

How I wish I was a better thief, because
I could have lived exciting parallel lives,
running from corner stores with my spoils
trafficked down teenaged pant legs – or because
I would be a better poet but instead I skulk
and borrow and hobble scraps together, and
bury them all in my breast pocket because
I keep all of my flaws close to my heart.
Or how I wish the hundred apologies
I offer you, a constellation of condolences
for sloppy drivers spilled coffee stubbed toes
were solutions instead, not a litany –
reciting all of my opportunities
to fix your world which I wasted – or how
I wish I had words when I needed them,
when we are holding hands walking two abreast,
or snapped into each other late at night
like orphaned puzzle pieces which strayed
from the box – so I could whisper into your neck
all those glances I’ve stolen,
snapshots I collect and hoard
because they are beautiful,
because they sustain me –
so I could have those words right then
in those pivotal moments, instead
I’m slumped over a keyboard
three weeks later –
so I could tell you how
I cannot put my weight on you
because I like where it lives –
my weight is mine
and it reassures me
like my father’s leather duster
draped across my twelve-year-old shoulders,
because I don’t know how to walk
without slumping over.
I want the words to tell you how
I wish I was the one to fight the cancer,
because it couldn’t hurt me. If I could explain
how my darker memories shine brighter
with the passage of time – spotlights
that freeze my stories in place, stop them skulking off
so they can’t slip away, or because
I’m still waiting for the cancer,
Cancer with a capital “C” which lurks
behind the curtains, in the corners
of the mirror, just behind me –
weaved into each thought each day –
instigator, paralyzer, the gasping breath,
my inescapable Zodiac – because
I enjoy hospital rooms and needle pricks,
because I can’t bear you being stuck in
another hospital room. Because
it should have been me.
Because I could do what I always do,
turn that stone in my pocket and
polish it smooth, another star
in the constellation.

2015 Poem-A-Week 12: March 19 – March 25