Even Now

I promise myself each morning
that I will not want you.

I will not

will not
stare blankly into the mirror
watching myself
become (a) stranger.

I tape pictures over windows
so that I do not look out.

I enclose myself
in this room,
a womb of icicles and rain.

How it trickles down unto my bare back
arched over your memories
still trying out
your touch.

How slowly,
over my flesh,
your fingers
irrigated trails...

(I’m in constant revision.
Rewriting your words.)

You dug so deeply,
ingrained into me

(The way you extend your chin
outwards, and press your lips together;
Or the way your eyes squint
to hold back obscenities you
are too polite to say though you
flaunt your im-polite-ness.)

This desert now aches
for rivers it never knew of.

Already, there are names of banks
and fish
and trees rooted.


I do not remember how it was before.
Arid. Safe.

I will not

will not think of you today.

As I drive by your favorite ice cream place,
Cold Stone. (Like you.)

I don’t look. And it is just that
that makes me think of you.

How I turn away to avoid
Looking.

Your eyes,
Were never fixed.

(This night is
filled with noise
in someone else’s arms.)

Even now
your storm
keeps me up and wet.

For Dana Tompkins