In Recalling the Onset of Symptoms

I write your name in dust lines
Because that I can blow away
If nothing else
And I hide book pages in dresser drawers
So that you won’t know what I’m reading;
What I’ve been up to.
If only you knew where to look.
The bird bats wings and clings his perch he knows he can do that
And not have to choose a destination.
Burn just as many birdie-seed calories
And spend long preening hours thinking:
I should really lower my cholesterol.

I’ve tied your hands in too many ways to
Flaunt it at you
But I feel pangs of guilt or
Humiliation or
Smugness
Every morning when I run off to do what I do best
For no reason other than that:
I do it best.

I was sweeping one day
In the hayloft
These pellets of dust and I realized
They were bat shit.
Which disperses
And kills you.
So I stopped
Amidst clouds of their dust
And took photos
Of the warfare.
I thought later that night
As I coughed and bitched
About the onset of symptoms:
How appropriate.
You rubbed my back
And empathized with allergies.

On the Thursday before I stayed asleep,
I watched you through the window
On my way in from work
Finding my pieces of hidden newsprint
And pasting the words
Back together.
Your mouth moved silently like
Working through the idea
That I didn’t know
How to keep
Things on display.

And a year later
When it started to rain in the spring,
You picked up petals
From my grave top
And arranged them on a canvas to look like
Lilies for me.
I sent you pollen into the air
And new you’d find it on your pillowcase
In the morning
After coffee but before your shower.