I did not know which one you were.
In my head you kept drowning.
I could not fathom your face—
Not entirely here and not all there.
Some other night you came to me,
In my childhood home, a place
You’d never been. As we embraced,
Wounds bloomed on your forehead,
Your breast; and blue you went, and black—
A walking bruise. I turned to get the phone
And it was you I tried to call; to bring
Me out of there—but caught between
The two of you,
I catapulted from paralysis and woke,
Expecting you to shimmer in the room
Of this hotel on Boston Common. It took cold
Seconds to confirm my solitude;
Took hours to sleep again.
Tonight, you drown and drown again.
Again you drown. I wake alone and wet.