Sick

It nauseates me, the memories I wake up and know

but cannot say, as if I must hurl up

the things that hold meaning to me,

the aftertaste sour in my mouth.

How will I know, what I am to do.

I do not blame you for learning to know, the way you did.

I hope you will not resent me mine;

whirling through, aimless in my lightheadedness.

Those of us infected, how can we understand

if we are moving forward with our lives?

This morning I cried, for no reason I could digest

and the tears churned unsettled in my stomach.

Try: take some honey in the afternoon, if the mornings are too harsh;

Have some tea after dinner. If there is no cure,

there are the things that will make life a little softer,

a little easier to swallow.

Strawberries

The strawberries from the north

busy themselves

getting into things that should not concern them;

spilling with each crisp bite

staining your shirt

dribbling onto the grass.

That spot that won’t wipe clean

clings sticky to my palm,

a trail of tissue bits for the effort.

They colour our smiles;

they spew with our laughter—

stained hands,

cold strawberries,

a warm day.

Skin

It ought not to be easy to change my skin:

I am no shapeshifter.

My skin remembers me,

though I find myself unrecollected in the mirror.

The blister on my toe leaves no mark,

Though this new scab I am picking will.

It will join the scar from the bike trip,

the white traces on my knees.

It knows well its history:

I say I will forget, but my skin has a deeper memory than mine;

a part of me I cannot shed.