Ask Your Doctor If Poetry Is Right for You

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It’s sad but not sad we love the darkness.

Ghosts, who let you in? I swore

I locked the door. Even those who can’t touch

drink wine together as the moon rises

in their individual glasses. Once I made a date

three years in advance — who lives so optimistically?

I want a bottle of difficult love so when I pour it —

the universe becomes a chalice of stars. It’s sad

but not sad how our wrists are made of poetry.

And when I touch the underside of life, I feel

its pulse. And I hear it, in the whisper of words

— the blood telling the bruise, I am here for you.