Ruin

It is a step,
—mild desperation
to attempt
to memorialize you
in a poem.
You don’t deserve to be
memorialized.

Hanging
half bent over
the edge
of my bed
a swimmers back,
bare,
three brown marks
like thumb prints
pressing up your spine.

“They’re starting to feather.”
You say this,
fingers flipping onion thin pages;
a ruined text
describing the best way
to approach Marxist
criticism.

“If it’s melanoma, I’m fucked.”

Your criticism for me
is that I am
too Passionate
and that I talk
about my Passion
for you.

In public, you and I
ignore each other artfully—
subtle glances now
a firm reminder
of how much of you I took in,
samples.

And you and my
enemies
have vigorously
nailed me up
—wrists and feet—
without the chance
to tell you—
despite your collection
of hammers and tape,
your variety of drills,
walls of ropes well knotted,
that I had such love
for you.

On The Edge Of The Bed

Blake Hamilton