Grievances

Grievances

Your body is a drug,
and now that I’ve had a taste,
I’m addicted to your warmth. Remember

when we used to share my twin bed, you
mashed into the wall, me, on your head,

snoring. I made piles of the books
I read each month and tried not to drop

out of the world. You shared
an apartment with a gospel singer

named Princess, made things to eat
I still can’t spell, and tried not to cough

when I stood under the oven vent to smoke.
You’ve never forgiven the fact
that I deleted

the first messages you sent me because
I didn’t know who you were. Now, I know:

you are warm, and you are quick.
I’m slow and wear socks to bed. But I did

your dishes, those first few times
I came to visit.
Remember that, if nothing else.


C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on Carcinogenic Poetry