I don’t know if
Anxiety has anything to do
With not being able to love you,
Or if it’s your own bipolar
Disorder. Disorder is the
Right word for my
World now, which is entirely
Out of order.
Still, for the first time in my life
I’ve been sleeping like
Dead things at the bottom of the sea,
Like our dead children, like
The prospects for our future.
That is, peacefully,
There was a fire we doused with
Feelings of inadequacy,
Miles of space between your
Understanding and mine.
A bookstore that’s closing soon,
That’s full of pages we are not
I am bleeding irregularly.
My body knew I wasn’t happy first.
I thought this state of fatigue was
This feeling of wading through
Shed disappointment, which
Falls from us like peeled skin.
We keep adjusting our expectations
Downward as if we’re trying to keep our
Car from spinning out on this hill never
Stopping to realize that we are
Headed together in the wrong direction.
I was tripping acid during the second miscarriage, the one
Where I must have been a couple of months along.
I saw the tiny shape in the toilet surrounded by a watery
Bloom of blood,
It looked like an impossibly
Small doll. I flushed
And went back to the bedroom where you were
I didn’t mention it to you until
Years later. I didn’t
Know what to say.
Years of drinking and
Drug abuse and
Depo-Provera made my
Womb a wasteland.
I am not even sad.
I am chronic. I can’t find
Help because I chose you instead of
Family, instead of
Doctors, instead of my
And you can’t help me, you can’t even
Help yourself. And I can’t
Help you. And there’s so little that we
Can do, and the
Window is closing on us all the time.