Higher Powers

You tell me that you don’t exist without
my telling you to stay beneath my nails
that clack upon the pollen laden floor
till finger skin and vein are beat to blood,
into a mush of dust and Moscow mule.
I see you pool around my broken skull
made manifest by falling through the stairs.
You’re soaking me, transparent in the sun.
You taste of citrus salt, a Windex mix
of cleanliness that bleached my skeleton
when you ran down my brain stem’s base, became
a curvature of crooked spinal cords.
Now I remember how to tie my shoes.
I miss you helping me to forget that.

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