photo: ralph murre
by Marilyn Annucci
Though you sang to me
while I stood at the stove,
and spoke of cures,
even your optimism in those days
made me a little sad.
The only life I’ve ever wholly believed in
has been the body half-broken,
or leaving. Even when we find the ones
who make us laugh, whispering
silliness into one another’s necks.
Your pile of pills each morning
has grown, the proteins trying
to transmit signals to the brain’s front doors
with instructions: Lift hand.
Regulate temperature. Speak.
Speak to me, dear one,
tell me again, though you scramble a word,
lose a thought, need another nap.
It takes more than a leap of neurons
to love like this.
~ previously published in Waiting Room